


unsentimental

by foxbones



Category: Happiest Season (2020)
Genre: F/F, i really came out of fanfic retirement to write about this, if you're on the fence i promise to convert you before this is done, one point four seconds of screentime and two metric tons of tension, tw: harper slander, tw: slagging on rich people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27765025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxbones/pseuds/foxbones
Summary: It’s the weekend of Harper and Abby’s wedding, and this event has everything: ostentatious displays of New England wealth; bridal party brunches; themed cocktails; canapés; moonlit swims in the nude; exquisite torture; cold pizza; gas station popsicles; a copy of Machiavelli’s “The Prince”; a bruise on Sloane Caldwell’s shoulder that matches the dental records of one Riley Bennett.
Relationships: Sloane Caldwell/Riley Bennett, Sloane Caldwell/Riley Johnson
Comments: 173
Kudos: 516





	1. rule one: no usage of names

**Author's Note:**

> big brain: abby/riley  
> galaxy brain: sloane/riley
> 
> partially inspired by "cape cod kwassa kwassa" and "taxi cab" coming on in the car this morning
> 
> the internet says riley's last name is "bennett" but some people are saying it's "johnson" so i hope we can settle that before this train gets too far out of the station
> 
> i'm just here to have a good time, the happiest time if you will (this is, of course, sarcasm, as anyone who came here from my killing eve fic will know)

“Bennett.”

“Sloane.”

Sloane’s temple twitches. Riley can see it as she passes her: the way Sloane clenches her jaw, pushes her tongue against her back teeth. A single motion, coupled with the narrowing of her eyes, the proud tilt of her chin.

Interesting.

  
  
  
  
  


What follows - Abby and Harper’s reunion, the family’s pseudoreckoning - must be gleaned from conversations with Riley’s mother Eleanor, a method of news-sourcing that she has never enjoyed but will accept given the circumstances. Town gossip is unrivaled and beggars can’t be choosers: Riley doesn’t follow Harper on social media. Never did. This is a decision she made over a decade ago, and one she stands by to this day. 

Harper had sent her a follow request on Instagram. 2011, she thinks, though certain elements of college life have made it difficult to remember on which evening in particular this had all occurred. (Cocaine, for example. Alcohol for another.)

Harper was a legacy at Harvard, her page the product of a budding strategist, carefully curated: sweaters paired with skirts, champagne flutes in manicured hands, boys on sailboats. Fucking sailboats, Riley remembers thinking, as if they weren’t both descended from the same kinds of New England dynasties, overflowing with stereotypes and sad little rich girls in gilded cages. As if this wasn’t Riley’s inheritance, too, even if she insisted on downplaying it.

Well, cliche after cliche, and here they were.

It was very bold of Harper to assume she was going to re-enter Riley’s life, unremarkable as it was at the time - Smith, terrible bangs, brief flirtation with septum ring - after four years of silence. Bold of Harper, but typical.

Delete request. Block. Done.

Over the years, she’d accepted requests from the other two Caldwell sisters, including Sloane. Watched the spectacle of her marriage, the coordinating outfits, motherhood as a kind of intensely choreographed recital with a Boston filter. Exhausting, it seemed then, and this from someone who had sacrificed their twenties to medical school. Now she realizes that Sloane was only doing what comes naturally to women like her - like Sloane, like Harper, but like Riley, too, deep down in a part of her she has chosen to ignore. Sloane was performing, and she excelled at it. The result of a natural with years of practice, dancing her feet bloody.

  
  
  
  
  


Riley’s recollection of Sloane at school was a scowl, a passing figure in the hall, occasionally appearing at the periphery of memories involving Harper to deliver a scathing comment. Her presence tended to sour Harper’s mood. Riley was intrigued.

A senior when Riley and Harper were freshmen, Sloane had simultaneously held the positions of student government president, secretary of the Young Republicans, and captain of the field hockey team, where she was known for being particularly vicious. The story of her breaking the kneecap of a teammate was passed down with terrified reverence. 

On other girls, the uniforms with their Peter Pan collars and plaid skirts came across as coy, but on Sloane the style was severe, even austere. When everyone else flaunted prestige with the Coach Hobo, Sloane was the first to sport a Fendi Peekaboo. The rest of the school immediately followed suit, scrambling to keep up. 

In the ecosystem of wealthy teenagers at New England private schools, Sloane had found a way to consistently hold the lead with few competitors. She was distinct from her sister this way: Harper glided through school softened by a halo of admirers (of which Riley was formerly the most loyal), her successes as social as they were academic; Sloane seemed to disdain any attempt at bonding with her peers, preferring to see them skewered when they stepped between her and her prize. A predictable cast of handsome but submissive boys would briefly play the part of her boyfriend before being rotated out for the next.

Sloane had graduated by the time Harper decided to ruin Riley’s life. But she remembers that first Christmas after it all, the annual Caldwell party that Eleanor had refused to skip: Sloane back home for the holidays, maturing herself in a Kate Spade dress, holding silent court in the corner of her second dining room. Impossible for her not to have known what had happened. Riley had kept to the shadow of her parents, ignored in the way that this town’s adults signaled their disapproval, but there was Sloane, watching her carefully, following her around the room with her eyes. In only a few minutes, Tipper would take Eleanor and Roger aside and ask them to take their daughter home - Harper’s not comfortable coming downstairs, you see how it is, thank you so much for understanding, Merry Christmas - and they, of course, would concede. 

  
  
  
  
  


A week into January, Riley gets a text from Abby: 

> So it’s not awkward if we actually become friends, right?
> 
> I’m not opposed to it.
> 
> Cool. Great. 
> 
> Friendship commenced.
> 
> How was your New Years?

From here, a robust friendship does bloom. Riley has never been fond of certain lesbian stereotypes, especially ones that are firmly in her control and thus can be avoided, but finds this friends-with-the-current-girlfriend-of-my-ex scenario to be an agreeable compromise. And she will be the first to admit that she does feel a certain wicked satisfaction when Abby comes to her for commiseration over Harper’s more boneheaded fuck-ups. As she should, she thinks. She has more than earned that right. It also comes naturally to her, being the daughter of a born begrudger, and on this one very particular occasion, she will indulge the genetic tendency.

  
  
  
  
  


“I was looking at that picture you posted the other day. You’re starting to get bags under your eyes. I’d say you’re stressed, but the same thing happened to me when I was in my thirties. Well, maybe a little later. You’re aging faster than I did, you get that from your father’s side. They all retain water in their faces.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Anyway, thank god for Dr. Roman. I’m sure he could give you some kind of industry discount, doctor to doctor. You really should think about it.”

“Will do.”

“Your father says hello.”

“Hello, Dad.”

“And there he goes. Something more important in his study, I suppose. Oh, I almost forgot. Did you hear that Sloane Caldwell moved to New York? I saw Tipper yesterday, but I already knew about the divorce. Well, everyone knew about the divorce, I just didn’t know she’d left Boston.”

“Interesting.” And it is. It is very interesting.

“That poor family. It’s just been one thing after another with them. Who knows, maybe this will make her happy. She was never a very happy girl, though, was she? So intense.”

“Intense, yeah. Definitely.”

“You sound distracted. Are you distracted?”

“No, I’m just making dinner.”

“Sticking to 1200 calories? Remember that supplement I told you about?”

“Talk later, Mom.”

  
  
  
  
  


She will blame exhaustion for what she is doing now: scrolling on her phone, not even out of her scrubs yet, tapping her way to Sloane Caldwell’s Instagram page. 

New York, indeed. There’s the brownstone, there’s the obligatory day out with the kids in Central Park, there’s the selfie at some kind of gala in a floor-length gown. That same scowl in the mirror, as though even her reflection has done something to bother her. Maybe it has. Self-loathing is a favorite hobby among the women of their particulars.

No evidence of a new partner. Not that Riley is seeking out said evidence, but it is hard to miss that the only people appearing in these photos are Sloane and her children, and a few stray shots of Jane and Harper. No surprise appearances from her parents, interestingly enough. And no men on her arm, no men posed behind the twins, no men in the background of a mirror selfie. This is not the Sloane whose social media was formerly plastered with family portraits and couple photoshoots and clearly staged occasions of supposed spontaneity. This New York version is nearly unrecognizable in that way: private, discrete, difficult to read. 

Riley slides away from the profile, sees Abby’s post of her and Harper skiing in Aspen. Comments “I’d say watch out for yetis, but you’re on vacation with one.” Receives a cry-laughing emoji in Abby’s reply. She and Abby have an ongoing joke about Harper’s height which Harper seems to be mostly on board with, and if it makes her just a little bit uncomfortable, well, that’s unfortunate.

  
  
  
  
  


Abby says they’ve finally decided on a date: middle of June, most agreeable weather and no overlap with Caldwell family birthdays. And they want the ceremony to be at the Caldwells’ vacation home in Maine. Almost a destination wedding, as Abby puts it, but lowkey. Riley chooses not to tell her that any event involving the Caldwell matriarch has no chance of being labeled “lowkey.” She will pretend to be surprised when the wedding is inevitably ostentatious and overcomplicated. 

What is an actual surprise is Abby asking her to be one of her bridesmaids.

“I know, I know,” she says, her face on Riley’s phone pulled into one of her crooked grimaces. “It sounds weird and traditional but we’re not using that term, we’ll call you ‘friends of the bride’ or something. And I promise you won’t have to wear a dress I picked out. Fuck, can you imagine?” There’s a pause, Abby gnawing the inside of her mouth. In another conversation, Riley would jokingly accuse her of doing Orphan Face, but she knows how serious this is for the other woman, who confessed over the months that she can count her friends on one hand. “Look, you don’t have to say anything now. You can decide and let me know. It would mean a lot to me, but I wouldn’t ever want anyone to feel uncomfortable or even--”

“Dude. Happy to do it. Bridesmaid, friend of the bride, whatever you want to call me, I’ll be there.”

The relief in Abby’s features is palpable, her shoulders dropping as she smiles. “Oh, perfect. Thank you so much. Expect for Sloane to get in touch.”

“Sloane?”

“She volunteered to help with everything, which is great because John’s kind of useless. You know how intense she is with organization, although…” Abby shrugs. “She’s chiller now, I think. Since the divorce she’s definitely more chill.”

  
  
  
  
  


Actually, Sloane is not at all chill. 

In reply to Riley’s questions, Sloane presents one word answers in a three word range: Yes. No. Explain.

‘Yes’ to Riley asking if there is a designated place for them to book their accommodations.

‘No’ to Riley asking if she has any suggestions for wedding gifts.

‘Explain’ to Riley asking if she’ll be in New York next week.

> I’m headed up there for a medical conference at Sloan-Kettering.
> 
> That’s why I ask.
> 
> Well, I live here.
> 
> So clearly I will be here.
> 
> Would you like to get together for a meal?
> 
> Why?
> 
> Because we’ll both be in the same place.
> 
> Have we not been in the same place before?
> 
> We could discuss the wedding over a coffee.
> 
> Is the phone not sufficient for that?
> 
> Okay, well, I’ll be in New York next week.
> 
> And I guess I’ll see you next at the wedding in June.

  
  


Riley doesn’t know why she even bothers with the Caldwell women, why she hasn’t learned her lesson by now after everything they’ve put her through. She isn’t that stupid, really.

Except then she’s buzzed in Hell’s Kitchen next Tuesday at about 9:30 PM, the end of a very, very extended happy hour and she is feeling stupid, just exquisitely moronic, and texts Sloane again.

>   
>  If coffee doesn’t work, how about a drink?

Three dots appear and disappear, appear and disappear. Finally, a response comes.

> I’m not dating right now.
> 
>   
>  I didn’t ask.
> 
> When?
> 
> Now-ish?   
>  Tonight?
> 
>   
>  That is extremely presumptuous.
> 
>   
>  It’s spontaneous.
> 
>   
>  Where?
> 
>   
>  Wherever is convenient to you, you pick.
> 
>   
>  So not only are you imposing, you are expecting me to do all the work of finding a bar.  
>  In a city with hundreds of thousands of bars.  
>  Of which I am meant to select one.
> 
>   
>  Do you have a favorite spot?
> 
> No.
> 
> Name a block that would be easy to get to and I will find a bar on that block.

  
Which, to Riley’s shock and amusement, Sloane does. 

And this is how she finds herself riding a train uptown, seeing her reflection in the window across from her, trying not to laugh at it all. Because this is ridiculous, it cannot be denied: she makes eye contact with Sloane Caldwell on one single occasion, catches some kind of murky “feeling” that has deluded her into asking the other woman for a drink when, really, there are any number of eligible doctors and pharmaceutical representatives who would be better suited to coming back to Riley’s hotel room tonight, and now she is speeding underground to the Upper West Side so as to be more convenient to a woman who has not, as far as Riley can remember, ever smiled at her. It’s not like she lacks other options. It’s not like she isn’t in the most populous city in the United States and could wander into any number of venues to acquire whatever it is she thinks she needs right now. It’s not like she didn’t intend to spend this evening preparing for a presentation on rare genetic disorders that she is only seventy percent ready to give tomorrow morning.

No, for some reason, despite her strong dislike of Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell, Riley finds herself strangely drawn to the fruit of their cursed loins for the second time in her life. 

Sloane orders a Manhattan and gives Riley the same disapproving one-over that had earlier been addressed to the interior of the bar, though the bar provoked no comment from Sloane beyond a nose-pinching sniff. She meets Riley’s eye, and for the first time, Riley considers that the entire set-up was actually a very bad idea, begins identifying the exits as though fire safety is paramount.

Sloane nods at her suit. “Did you dress up for this?”

“I was at a cocktail event.” She self-consciously straightens her jacket, smooths the sleeves. Did Sloane dress up is the real question, and Riley thinks she can make a guess: no. Or yes, in her own way. Sloane’s hair is longer than the last time they saw each other, held up at the crown of her head with a single gold clip. She’s wearing all black, which makes her recede even further into their unlit corner of the bar. Said bar being a cocktail place with a good wine list, mostly unoccupied because this is a part of town for families and old folks and it’s late on a Tuesday. School night. But here is Sloane, mother of two, sitting in the corner booth with the table between them like a statement, and here is Riley, unsure where to settle her eyes, her hands.

Sloane’s head cocks, studying Riley’s collar, then her neck. “What is that, Philip Lim?”

“Tom Ford for Gucci.”

“So you always wear a pantsuit.”

“Not always.”

Sloane’s eyebrows raise as she drinks. “But mostly.”

“How are the gift baskets?”

“I wouldn’t know. Eric kept the business in the divorce.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m not. It was his brainchild, I refused custody.”

“So now you’re…”

“Practicing law. I’m certified in New York and Connecticut. I’ve gone to enough waste already. I am preventing further degradation.”

“Congratulations.” She holds up her glass. Sloane stares at it, considers the gesture, and finally clinks her drink with Riley’s. At the success of this moment, maybe the first success of the evening beyond getting Sloane here at all, Riley takes a sip.

“Did you fuck Abby?”

An interruption to her swallow, causing a slight sputter. “Sorry?”

“Did you fuck her? Obviously you fucked Harper, or at least did the teenage equivalent of heavy petting.”

“I didn’t fuck Abby, no. I didn’t fuck Harper either. It would depend on your definition of fucking but I’ll make a wild guess as to yours and say no.” She gives her a look. “Did it seem like I fucked Abby?”

“No, I just…” A sigh, or the more aggressive cousin of a sigh. “I won’t even lie, I was hoping you did.”

“Aren’t you organizing their wedding?”

“I am, but I’m referring to Christmas. At the time, I thought there might be something karmic in it.”

“In me fucking your sister’s fiancee?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I didn’t. It did not cross my mind then or now. Haven’t you two made up?”

Sloane snorts. “Oh, haven’t we.”

“I’m confused. You’re her maid of honor. You’re in charge of everything.”

“I volunteered because I knew if I didn’t, my mother would step in and make things even worse. Jane is not incompetent but her enthusiasm hinders matters of project management. Harper and I have a few unresolved issues that I don’t see being resolved any time soon. That does not make me a completely evil human.”

“I never said you were.”

“It would have been evil to leave her and Abby in the clutches of Tipper. I did what had to be done.”

“Does Harper know you have these issues? I was under the impression everything was resolved.”

And this is the first time that Sloane ever smiles at Riley. She will remember it the way someone recalls seeing their first Rembrandt. Sloane leans forward, and though her smile does not reveal her teeth, though it slides across her face as though coaxed by someone’s finger, though it is...decidedly wicked, it is a smile, a smirk, and Riley swallows.

“Let’s not play pretend with each other, Bennett.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“I think we both know the many ways in which Harper is not an angel.”

“Ah.” Riley sits back, cups her elbows as her arms cross. It is a slightly defensive move, she knows, but it also shows the width of her shoulders. Appropriate for whatever it is they are doing now: posturing, taking in each other’s assets, careful, careful, more careful still. “That was a long time ago.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“So you’re not about to tell me that you’ve forgiven her?” Sloane shrugs, eyes rolling. “That you’re the bigger person for taking the high road.”

“If I did, isn’t that very much my business?” 

And there’s that smirk again, Sloane smiling into her sip of whiskey. “Did she ever apologize?”

“No.”

“She never does.” 

What Sloane does not know, what Riley will not reveal here nor ever, is that Riley is the one who apologized. Worse, she wrote Harper a letter detailing all the ways she herself had been wrong, all the things she was willing to do to atone for the grievous trespass that was revealing the truth of their relationship to the greater student body, even on accident. Riley had begged for forgiveness, begged for something like release, and then done the thing that landed her at the psychiatric institute for three months. Different times, worse times. A wound she claims has healed.

“Can I give you some advice?” Sloane is leaning in again, her elbows grazing the table and Riley can’t help but to close the gap between them as the other woman’s voice lowers. “Forgiveness must be earned. They have to deserve it. Can you really say she’s done enough?”

“I never said I forgave her,” Riley says. “I just said it was a long time ago. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Has your family done enough for you? Have you forgiven them?”

Sloane lets out a brief cackle. “There aren’t enough years left in any of their lives to make up for their continued wrongs.” Her frown loosens slightly. “Minus Jane. Jane is a different story, my issue is not with Jane. But Harper, my parents...no, I’m not interested in forgiveness. I would gain nothing from it.”

“Christ,” Riley shakes her head, and it’s only the drink that pushes her this far, it’s the only thing to explain how reckless this statement is. “You’re so fucking intense.”

Sloane’s posture stiffens, her glass placed back onto the table. Yet she isn’t scowling; if anything, strangely, she seems interested in something. Curious. “I’m aware.”

“Not that it’s a bad thing. Not necessarily.”

“I’m aware of that, too.” Sloane’s jaw twitches. “When are you going to fuck me?”

Riley’s mouth falls open in a rather cliche way, the space between her teeth large enough for someone’s thumb. “Sorry?”

“I said I didn’t want to play pretend. Whatever pretense you keep upholding is unnecessary at this point. I am very aware that you did not come all this way to have smalltalk.”

“I didn’t assume…” Actually, she did, there’s really no question that she did, but she’s going to lie anyway.

“I’m not insulted, so you can stop trying to be polite. I’m just saying that if you’re ready to leave now, we can go. You’ve done enough posturing, the point is taken. I’d prefer not to wait all night.”

She gets to her feet, finishes her drink as she does so. “My hotel is--”

“No, I’m a five minute walk and Eric has the twins until Saturday. No forty minute Ubers.”

“Okay.” Riley feels the need to shake out her limbs, to do another shot, but she follows as Sloane leads her out of the bar with a determination that seems appropriate for an assassination, a task in which one pierces the vital organs of the others, instantaneous death.

Not entirely inaccurate.

Sloane has rules. Well, they are less rules than recommendations. Riley has learned in the span of a few hours that she can get away with more than initially assessed.

No usage of names.

No biting in places visible when wearing a boatneck collar.

No romance, which is how Sloane puts it, and turns out to mean that tenderness is out the window.

Not that Riley interpreted any of this as an occasion that called for tenderness.

Riley steps on something soft and hairy as she slips out of the bed: a stuffed bear, it turns out, and she gingerly removes her foot, feeling slightly guilty for the intrusion. Glances over her shoulder to make sure Sloane remains asleep, then places the bear up onto a chair, facing away from them so as to not shock the poor thing.

There are other signs of children in the house, their portraits (professional, casual, self-via-crayon) on various walls and surfaces, the doors to their rooms marked with stickers. If Riley had ever imagined Sloane as a domestic engineer, it was in a much more exacting role. Minimalist, severe, toys hidden away, colors reduced to black and white. Yet there are small things out of place here that feel more organic, imperfect. A few dirty dishes in the sink. A coloring project abandoned on the floor of the living room that needed to be stepped around when they arrived in the dark. An unfinished mug of coffee sat cold on the nightstand on Sloane’s side, and Riley had narrowly avoided smacking it with an elbow at some point, distracted with other matters.

In the bathroom, she dares to turn on the overhead light, then flicks it off just as fast after facing the carnage of lipstick across her mouth and nose, her hair stuck to her forehead. A shining layer of...Sloane on her chin. Fuck, she thinks. The clock next to the sink declares it to be a little after three in the morning.

“Is it your intention to sleep over?” This from Sloane when she returns to the bedroom. Sloane is sitting upright in the center of the mattress, arms folded over her chest. She has put on a black negligee, though this does not hide a breach of contract: a fast-forming bruise on her left shoulder, left by Riley’s teeth.

“I, uh...I can go back to my hotel if that’s what you want.”

“I didn’t say what I wanted. What is your intention?”

“My intention?”

“If I hadn’t been awake, would you have gotten back into bed and slept? Or would you have snuck out and gotten a cab?”

Riley finds herself without an answer to this. Well, without one worth saying aloud. In truth, she’d had every intention of climbing back under the sheets and sleeping with an arm wrapped around Sloane’s middle - completely presumptuous, likely impossible, but she was not exactly thinking clearly right now.

Sloane sighs, jaw twitching. Tongue searching the inside of her mouth, eyes narrowing as she meets the other woman’s gaze. “Decide, please.”

To Riley’s knowledge, Sloane has never used ‘please’ with her before, either, or with anyone in any conversation Riley has witnessed. 

“Is it okay if I stay?”

“I would have asked you to leave immediately after I came if I wanted you to go.”

“Which time?”

Sloane blinks. “What?”

“You came more than once. Following which orgasm would I have been kicked out?”

“Just get back into bed, Bennett.”

She’s sitting through a panel of pharmaceutical reps when her phone buzzes against her thigh. This is the text she has been waiting for all morning, the text she did not receive when she left the apartment despite expecting one - a thank you seemed too much to hope for, but a goodbye, maybe, an acknowledgment that most of Riley’s fist had spent a portion of the evening getting to know Sloane Caldwell’s cervix? - and it was not a disappointment.

> How much longer are you in town?
> 
> One more night.
> 
> Do you have plans this evening?
> 
> Do you?
> 
> Don’t make me spell this out, Bennett.
> 
> Do you want to get drinks first?
> 
> No.
> 
> So I should just come back over there and…
> 
> Just be here after 9.

“I’ll see you in five weeks.”

“What?” Riley looks up as she steps back into her pants, hair falling into her face. 

Sloane raises an eyebrow. “The wedding?” she asks. “Or have you decided not to go after all this?”

“Right, fuck. The wedding.” She zips up. “Why wouldn’t I go after this? Is this going to be weird now?”

“You tell me.” Sloane stands, slides on the silk robe previously crumpled on the floor when it had been forcefully removed and discarded. She had been wearing this robe and only this robe when Riley had arrived earlier that evening, a fact Riley continues to find difficult to believe, yet there she’d been: Sloane Caldwell in a silk robe, waiting for Riley Bennett to show up and fuck her. 

God, the town would be sent into some kind of extraplanar orbit if this ever got home.

“I don’t think it has to be weird.” Fuck, should she even go here? Should she really be this stupid and ask? “Where are we, uh...at...after all this?”

“Have you gotten what you wanted?” It’s a bizarre question, but Sloane asks it as though it is the natural follow-up to a two-night-stand. Once again, Riley finds herself going along with whatever this woman presents to her.

“I guess.”

“Have your needs been fulfilled?”

“When you put it like that, sure.”

“How else should I put it?” Sloane crosses her arms again: a common gesture for her, it seems. “Please tell me you haven’t developed a crush, Bennett.”

“I could ask the same of you.”

Sloane’s cackle makes a brief reappearance. “I can’t imagine where you would have gotten that impression.”

“So we just move on, then.”

“That seems to be the most preferable option.”

A new and sudden fear occurs to Riley. A foolish one, maybe, birthed by a leftover insecurity, and yet she has to ask. “Are you going to tell Harper?”

Sloane’s face softens, seems almost confused. “Why would I ever tell Harper?”

“I mean, I think she’d absolutely hate that this happened.”

And now all softness in Sloane is gone, replaced immediately with that set jaw, her frown back and more severe than ever. She tips up her chin. Glows with what is unquestionably anger. It’s frightening and Riley feels her organs go cold and yet god, she kind of wants to kiss her and get slapped in the face all at once. “So you think I got into bed with you to piss off my sister.”

“No, I just--”

“This was some kind of revenge fuck, is that it?”

“I didn’t say that. Look, forget I brought it up.”

“I don’t forget anything. Ever.” Sloane makes a gesture towards the door. “I’ll see you in five weeks. Do not expect me to acknowledge you beyond what is expected of a maid of honor to a bridesmaid.”

“Friend of the bride, I think.”

Sloane’s eye twitches. “Friend of the bride.”

God, she’s so fucking intense.

And this is the thought that follows her on the Amtrak, and then through the next five weeks, during which Sloane does not return her text messages, choosing instead to cc her on organizational emails and leave very militant instructions in the bridal party groupchat: God, she’s so fucking intense.


	2. rule two: no biting in places visible when wearing a boatneck collar

> Do you have a plus-one?
> 
> No. Do you?
> 
> I am not asking out of personal curiosity.
> 
> I need to know the seating arrangements.
> 
> Do you plan on acquiring a plus-one by next week?
> 
> I can try.
> 
> If you’re successful, let me know.
> 
> Do you have a plus-one?
> 
> That is irrelevant.
> 
> Best of luck if you are looking.
> 
> The same to you.

  
  
  
  
  


  1. Sign up for three different queer personals and dating apps. 
  2. Dredge them for a potential wedding date. 
  3. Convince said date to come with her to Maine within five days time.



She’s certain that if she ever explained her plan to someone, they would advise her against it, but Riley has never been very good at letting go of anything: habits, people, poorly-wrought plans. This is a decent example of the latter. Riley doesn’t like one-night-stands with random strangers, never has. (Sloane, for what it’s worth, is a combination of strange and familiar that Riley is still processing.) The concept that she could meet and bond with some woman in four days in order to trust her enough to attend a wedding that will make considerable social demands on them both is...wild. Stupid? Probably stupid, too. She has almost no faith in the system, especially after hours of scrolling through one unfortunate personal ad after the next:

No, she can’t bring a whole polycule to Maine.

No, she doesn’t date Cancer suns with Pisces moons. (Not that she knows anything about this, but it seemed the kindest way to bow out of a conversation that was growing a little too aggressive.)

That’s her ex’s ex, she’s pretty sure, the one who had all the dogs.

No, the wedding is not a fetish, this is not whatever this person means by WeddingPlay.

Sometimes she’ll make a bit of progress, but then everything gets hung up on the details of actually seeing each other in person. Somehow sexual compatibility never managed to make it to Riley’s list of requirements for a wedding date. Curious how that happened. Almost like Riley is trying very hard to stay out of any possible romantic entanglements before being in the presence of Sloane Caldwell again.

“How hard can it be?” This from Abby, frowning over Facetime, who can’t understand why Riley is attending alone when she’d sworn for months she would have a date. “When was the last time you dated?”

“Define dating.”

“Okay, when was the last time you got laid?”

Ha. Ha ha ha. “Last month.”

“That’s not bad, right? Did things end well there?”

End well? Questionable. “It was a two-night-stand, more or less.”

“Are you still in contact?”

Technically she just sent me a group email about floral arrangements. “Yeah, in a way.”

“So why can’t you bring her?”

Well, she’ll already be there. “I don’t think she’s available.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

A myriad of answers. “Nothing, really. Literally the opposite.”

“Then what is the issue?”

Would prefer not to contemplate where my feelings are in regards to Sloane Caldwell, thank you so much. “It’s complicated.”

Abby sighs, gnawing the corner of her mouth. “Fuck, I don’t want to seem like I’m pressuring you. I’m really not. You can come stag if you want, that’s totally fine with me. I just want to make sure it’s not because you feel incapable of dating or something. You’re a really great person, you shouldn’t be selling yourself short.”

“I appreciate it, dude.”

“I support you no matter what you decide to do. Obviously you are not obligated to be coupled up. Feminism or whatever.”

“Feminism or whatever.” Riley holds up a half-hearted fist.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Riley deletes the apps from her phones. She does not follow up on any of the match conversations that managed to migrate to text. She knows what this looks like: it is identical to the process one undergoes when they have decided they are no longer on the market. That is not the case, she wants to say. It could not be further from the case. But the case in this case is a Louis Vuitton luggage trunk so overfull with bloated emotional complexities that it is guaranteed to burst open before reaching its destination.

To the outsider, it would seem fairly obvious that Riley Bennett is enthralled by Sloane Caldwell. Enthralled, in thrall of. Thrall from the Old Norse for slave: Riley is in complete servitude to her memory of Sloane Caldwell pressing her mouth against Riley’s ear and making throaty gasps as she shuddered in her grip.

Riley would beg to differ, of course. She is not in thrall of anything, certainly not Sloane. She did not develop a crush, that crush did not swell up like a fruit during those forty eight hours, said fruit does not currently dangle from somewhere in her ribcage and it certainly doesn’t constantly threaten to emerge via her throat.

So Riley packs for Maine. Spends many hours staring at the contents of her suitcase and thinking about how she will be perceived, thinking about how she shouldn’t think about the way Sloane will see her and how she wants Sloane to want her and how she should have found a date because she wants to see the look on Sloane’s face when she shows up with a date but she also shouldn’t bring a date, she can’t bring herself to pretend to be interested in someone else right now because Riley has always been shit at lying and worse, so much worse, Riley is afraid of falsely giving Sloane the impression she isn’t available, that she doesn’t still want another of those forty eight hours. Afraid this simple fact - the presence of a random person - will completely eliminate the possibility of something happening again. As if desire were some shallow puddle, as if it could be evaporated so easily.

  
  
  
  
  


There is no sign of the car meant to pick her up from the airport. Riley has already started calculating the cost of an Uber from here to Mount Desert Island, wondering if it is comparable to an overnight stay in Bangor. She allows herself to entertain the thought of skipping the first evening for the sake of “self care” - a concept she doesn’t think she believes in but is desperate enough to use as an excuse. 

Someone gives her arm an enthusiastic tug, and she spins, finding a small and intensely grinning brunette at her rear.

“Wow! Riley! Hello!” Jane Caldwell is an interesting amalgamation of her sisters: Sloane’s severe aesthetic becomes twee on Jane, and Harper’s round eyes, which always look like she is on the urge of pleading with someone, feel softer under her sister’s straighter brow. Riley relaxes.

“Hey Jane.”

“Isn’t this exciting? I’m having full body chills.” Jane’s luggage is a brilliant fuschia, which plays nicely against her grass green ensemble. “I am such a romantic, I really do love a wedding. Did you just get in?”

“Hour ago, actually. No sign of my ride.”

Jane’s frown takes over her entire face. “Oh no, that’s awful. Well, it’s total kismet that I’m here, right? There’s room for one more in my car. I mean, it’s not my car, I’m not allowed to rent a car in the state of Maine.” She shrugs. “Complete misunderstanding, I really had nothing to do with it ending up in the cranberry bog. And even if I did, it’s a very festive ending for a Nissan if you ask me. Anyway!” She gestures towards the end of the line of cars. “Sloane and Peyton are driving me, and I know for a fact they have an extra seat. I’ve already heard her complaining about how he just had to get the Hummer.”

Ah, of course. Kismet.

“I don’t think I’ve met Peyton.”

“Oh, none of us have.” Jane gives her a conspiratorial nudge. “You and I will be the first. Look, there they are.”

There’s still time for Riley to claim the car has magically appeared, book the hotel in Bangor. Even time for her to get back on the plane and return to whence she came rather than climb into this vehicle with Sloane and her children and some man named Peyton, but Riley is an adult. Riley will not flinch when the back door opens and the twins both turn in a choreographed swivel to give her a frowning appraisal, not when Jane slides over in the third row and pats the seat next to her with a smile. She will especially not flinch when Sloane, previously preoccupied with the visor mirror, notices the extra passenger.

“Look who I found,” Jane says, shaking Riley’s shoulder. “Riley Bennett gets stranded and here we are. A wedding miracle.”

“I really appreciate the ride.” Riley directs this to the driver, the man who must be Peyton. It’s difficult to get much of an impression of him from the third row, but she can see his Persols in the rearview, a square shoulder attached to a well-toned arm. He lifts his hand from the wheel, nods once. This, she interprets, is his method of saying it is no problem.

Sloane never turns around. She meets Riley’s eye in the mirror, her mouth hidden and thus her expression unreadable, but there is something in the twitch in her brow that makes Riley want to gnaw on her own tongue. She can imagine the mouth below those eyes. The jaw tightening, the frown on Sloane’s lips. Hard for it to just be there, a few rows away, just out of sight. Worse that there is nothing she can do about it.

  
  
  
  
  


Halfway through the ride, Jane tilts her screen in Riley’s direction. In her Notes app, she has typed out the following:

_What do we think????? Is he too Patrick Bateman??? He hasn’t said a word!!!!!_

Riley smirks. Gestures, takes the phone, and types her response:

_Sloane likes the ones who can’t verbally disagree with her._

Jane makes an exaggerated face in response, hiding a laugh.

“Can I help either of you?” Sloane’s voice from the front, her eyes reappearing in the mirror.

“No,” Jane squeaks, still wincing in suppression. “We are having a private conversation. Third row business.”

“I try to teach my children that secrets are impolite.”

“Well, Auntie Jane says they are sometimes fun.” Jane reaches forward and pats both twins on the head. 

  
  
  
  
  


The Caldwell vacation home - which, it should be noted, Riley thinks is more accurately described as a compound - is perfectly quintessential Old Money Maine: deceptively rustic white-shingled aesthetics hiding a luxury interior, a private beach on a private lake, multiple buildings for hosting sleeping guests. A stone gatehouse, now unmanned and there mostly for show, frames their entrance as they take the wooded drive, Jane talking away about the history of the property, its architectural features. Her knowledge is both impressive and charming, and Riley smirks in spite of herself, momentarily distracted from the chaos she knows will come.

Peyton parks in front of the main house. Riley goes to retrieve her luggage from the trunk, only to find that Sloane is already there, pulling out bags. Riley can take the full measure of her now: hair down, large square sunglasses (Bottega?) pushed up onto her head, cashmere and expensive denim and soft leather sneakers. She looks wealthy. She looks a little like a mom. She also looks comfortable, like someone who dressed to travel and nap and if there isn’t something about this fact that makes Riley feel a little warmer, the stupid image of Sloane Caldwell, terrifying Sloane Caldwell, napping against a plane window with her mouth slightly open...

“Sloane.”

“Bennett.” Sloane hands over her suitcase, which Riley nearly drops. 

“Good trip?”

“Fine.” Sloane is not making eye contact, focused instead upon unloading the car as though this requires all of her energy, suitcase after suitcase - an entire Louis Vuitton luggage set, in fact - dropping onto the gravel drive. The twins retrieve their own coordinating bags, giving Riley yet another one over before disappearing around the side of the house. 

“Good to see you again.”

Sloane halts, finally, straightening up and using one hand to shield her gaze from the sun - as though the sunglasses do not have this very purpose - as she turns to look Riley in the eye. “No plus one.”

Riley’s grip tightens on the handle of her suitcase. “No.”

“Is this some sort of statement?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Sloane’s jaw is twitching. “You’re not repulsive, Bennett. It shouldn’t have been that difficult for you to fetch a better half.”

“Glad to know I’m not repulsive.”

“What is this all about then?”

“What is what all about? I’m single, Sloane, it’s not performance art.” 

“It has nothing to do with your being single. One can be single and still bring a date to a wedding, it’s very straightforward, it’s what people do.”

“Is that what you did?”

Sloane frowns. “Yes, I brought an acquaintance. Thus I ask: are you making some sort of statement by coming alone?”

“No,” she says, watching that jaw twitch again. “If someone wants to read into my actions, infer some kind of intention, that’s on them.”

“I see.” Sloane presses the switch, the trunk closing.

“Riley!” Abby has appeared on the steps, one hand shoved awkwardly into her back pocket as the other waves. She’s wearing that signature grin that also seems to double as a grimace, though it is a happy grimace. “And Sloane. Did you two come together?”

Yes, five weeks ago. Well, a few seconds apart. Fifteen or so? A record for Riley, who never likes to coordinate with anyone, and she imagines Sloane is the same way.

And then Tipper has appeared behind Abby, and then Harper’s there, too, both of them addressing Riley without entirely addressing Riley, and it is not lost on her that Sloane gives them little more than a nod before following her twins down a path at the side of the house, trunk dragged behind her.

  
  
  
  
  


Riley deposits her things in a building that was apparently the “artist’s cottage”, which is also housing the rest of Abby’s bridal party: John, whose clothes are already flung all over the first bedroom despite him having arrived about ten minutes prior to Riley, and Abby’s ex-roommate Jayce, who has already commandeered the bottom bunk in the second bedroom. They wave without looking up from the book they’re reading - a copy of Qiu Miaojin, it appears - and gesture to the top bunk. 

“The mattress on the top is more comfortable, I swear.”

“Thanks,” she says, and awkwardly climbs the ladder to the second bed, testing it herself by laying on her stomach.

John sticks his head into the room, grinning. “Bunkbeds. That is adorable. A top and a bottom, am I right?”

Jayce sighs at the joke. “I’m a switch.”

John smirks. “Of course. How about you, Riley? Accurate assessment up there?”

Riley lifts her head and gives him a thumbs up. “What do you think?”

Their phones buzz at the same time. Unsurprisingly, Sloane is keeping them all busy. There is barely any time after “settling in” before they are meant to attend a late afternoon cocktail hour at the boathouse.

John’s eyebrows raise at his screen. “Jesus, I feel like I’m at summer camp. She’s really got us on a schedule.”

Jayce has put on a pair of coveralls that are the same silky shade of black as their single earring. “I hear we’re making friendship bracelets at four.”

“The only bracelet you’re taking home from a Caldwell wedding is from Tiffany’s, honey.” John gives them both a look. “I notice none of us brought dates. Are we all strategically using this wedding to source a sugar daddy or is that just me?”

“Good luck,” Jayce says. “This is the most heterosexual gay wedding in existence.”

  
  
  
  
  


There are only two cocktails available at this cocktail hour, and each is named after one of the brides. The Harper is essentially a Negroni and the Abby is a whiskey sour. Riley does love a Negroni but cannot bring herself to say the words “can I get a Harper?” out loud, and so opts for a beer. 

The boathouse is still very much a boathouse, the docks on the first floor currently occupied with beautiful nautical vessels and fully-dressed children being yanked out of the water by their parents. Among the wedding attendees are people Riley knows from high school: a few choice members of this cocktail party have actually referred to her by slurs, shortly after stating that Harper needed their protection. She ignores them, unsurprised they are here, unsurprised by most of the choices the other bride at this wedding has made. Ah, well. Ancient history.

Riley watches as the sun begins to set behind the heads of the guests and strike the bare shoulders of Sloane, whose outline glows golden on the far side of the deck. Next to her, Peyton nurses an Abby. Sloane has a glass of wine, the light catching its edge like a diamond. Riley keeps having to squint as the glare hits her directly in the eye, obscuring the face of whoever she is talking to, usually Jayce. It is not until hours later, walking back to the cottage with the rest of its occupants - a trio that John has decided to nickname the Queerios - that Riley realizes the glare was on purpose. Sloane was subtly tilting her glass just so it would land on Riley’s eye. She was doing this over and over, and not once did they exchange a word.

  
  
  
  
  


> Nice touch with the cocktails.
> 
> The names were not my idea.
> 
> I liked your dress.

Riley has to suppress a groan, smacking herself in the face where she lays flat on her back in the top bunk. I liked your dress? Jesus Christ. But the text is already sent, and anything else she might try to add now will look like pathetic backtracking. Better to own it.

> Thank you.
> 
> I see you still only wear pantsuits.
> 
> Guilty.
> 
> Max Mara?
> 
> Helmut Lang.
> 
> Are you in the main house?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Enjoying the cottage?
> 
> I hear you’re in the bunk bed.
> 
> I’ll send you a postcard.
> 
> Tomorrow we’re playing capture the flag.
> 
> Glad you’re keeping busy.
> 
> Not really.
> 
> Nothing to do with my hands right now.

This time, the groan is too automatic. She hears Jayce stirring on the bottom bunk, a quick snore. Riley makes a face, rereading the line and wincing at its sloppiness. Yet there are the three dots, coming and going, and there is Sloane’s response, making Riley’s breath stop.

> Pine Point.
> 
> Twenty minutes.
> 
> What/where is Pine Point?
> 
> It’s on the map.
> 
> What map?
> 
> I made a detailed map of the property.
> 
> You all received maps.
> 
> I don’t think I did.
> 
> It’s in the packet.
> 
> I haven’t looked at the packet yet.
> 
> I’m going to pretend I didn’t read that.
> 
> Twenty minutes, Bennett.

  
  
  
  


Riley hasn’t snuck out like this since she was in high school. Her attempt to silently descend the bunkbed is comical, and she makes a point of sliding her sock feet across the cottage floor in order not to wake the other two on her way out.

But all this was a bit pointless, because not two minutes out the door and heading towards this mysterious Pine Point, she sees John doing his own bit of skulking.

John stops, stands completely still. “What are you doing?”

Riley tries not to look shocked. “Well, what are you doing?”

His eyes narrow. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Okay, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Good for you.” He pulls his flannel further around him like a shawl. “Nice night for it.” He gestures vaguely at the sky. “Nice...moon.”

“That’s why I’m out. Big fan of the moon.”

“Me too. Very into the moon. Moonlit strolls.”

“Look at us.”

“Just two homosexuals going for a walk at two in the morning to moongaze.”

“Indeed.”

“I need to, uh...I am going to go moongaze in this direction.”

“Yeah,” she points over her shoulder. “And I like seeing the moon from over here, so, good luck to you, good to see you, have a great walk.”

“You too.”

  
  
  
  
  


Pine Point is a small peninsula of evergreens that extends out into the water, a five minute walk from the boathouse. Private, enclosed by the forest, no structures or places to settle down besides the large boulders that dot the water’s edge. It is on one of these that Sloane is perched when Riley approaches. Even in the dark, even with only the slightest sliver of moonlight, Riley’s body throbs with recognition. Sloane’s voice is low, quiet, cautious. They both know how sound travels over water.

“This is a terrible idea.”

“Probably.” Riley drops onto the rock next to her, careful to keep a few inches between them. “Although you’re the one who said it didn’t have to be weird.”

“That assumption relied on a scenario where we didn’t continue to have sex.”

“Who says we’re about to have sex?”

Sloane turns to her, one eyebrow raised. Jaw tight, tongue rolling on the inside of her mouth. “Did you come here for the exercise?”

And Riley gets an idea and stops herself from overthinking, standing, beginning to pull off her clothes. “Yes, actually,” she says, and tosses her pants onto another boulder, taking the rest off. “I came here to swim.”

She chooses not to look back before jumping, naked and without ceremony, into the water, then swimming further out, telling herself not to worry about Sloane following. She doesn’t hear a splash. Treads water with her eyes closed, slightly shocked at how cool the water is, until she feels the gentlest push on her shoulder. Turns around to see Sloane is in the water, too, as bare as she is.

“Follow me,” she says, and swims away from the shore, Riley thanking fate, kismet, whatever it is, for making her a competitive swimmer for her entire adolescence and teenage years, capable of following Sloane across the Atlantic like this if needed.

  
  
  
  
  


If someone were to sit on the second deck of the boathouse and gaze out at the water, if that someone had a very high-powered flashlight, they might be able to find the two figures reflecting moonlight, pale bodies moving between the trees, heading deeper into the heart of the small island off the coast of the lake, then disappearing. Reappearing later,the two of them settling in the shallows, half-submerged.

  
  
  
  
  


Another breach of contract on Sloane’s shoulder. Riley knew what she was doing this time - it was no accident, this particular bruise, something about the utter romantic absurdity of the situation making her want to be reckless - and Riley watches the lakewater kiss the same place where Riley’s mouth was previously occupied, Sloane shivering slightly at the cool air, then letting herself drop deeper into the water.

“Well,” Riley says, keeping her voice at a whisper. “We did go swimming.”

“We did.”

“So I think if anyone asks, we have a decent excuse.”

Sloane is quiet for a moment, her expression as unreadable as ever. “This was still a terrible idea.”

“A very terrible idea.” Riley chews the inside of her mouth. “I thought New York was the end of it.”

“I did, too.” Sloane isn’t looking at her. She seems to be studying the boulders across the water where their clothing is currently strewn, evidence of what’s happened on this small island, private as it seems. “I was furious with you.”

Because of the Harper thing, of course. “It was stupid of me to bring it up.”

“No, you had the right to ask. This is a complex situation.”

“That’s an understatement.”

Sloane sighs, such a strange sound to hear from her. “It was one thing to do this in New York. This, what we’ve done here, this is reckless.”

She isn’t wrong. She really isn’t. “I know.”

“We shouldn’t do this again. If someone found out…” Sloane doesn’t have to finish; Riley already knows how that sentence ends. The wedding would become another spectacle. The spotlight would be taken away from the ones who deserve it. Riley’s relationship with half the people attending would be forever changed. Sloane would lose more than she’d gained in divorce. Things would quickly spiral into chaos and it would all be because the two of them decided to go skinny-dipping. “We need to exercise self-control.”

“I agree.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Right. We won’t let it.”

Strange to talk about it this way, Riley thinks, her limbs a little more exhausted on the swim back to Pine Point. As though this thing between them is something tangible, fleshy, outside of themselves, outside of their control. As though it is something they need to harness before it ruins them both.


	3. rule three: no romance

Sloane keeps her distance at brunch. Never makes eye contact, though Riley only chances this twice, forcing herself to instead concentrate intensely on the eggs and the ever-refilling mimosas. The first time, she catches Sloane's tongue appearing at the corner of her mouth, followed by her napkin. It’s an achingly simple gesture that makes Riley’s fist twitch in her lap. The second time, the last time, she does not get Sloane to look back, but she does sense that Sloane is aware she is being watched: there is something that always shifts in Sloane’s face when she is observed. Riley has noticed it over their brief time in closer proximities, the subtle way Sloane’s eyes narrow, her expression intensifying. Not that Sloane isn’t always glowering with one energy or another, a woman like a hot coal placed directly on the tongue. Riley’s tongue.

Brunch implies an intimate affair but this is hardly that: the two sides of the bridal parties make up eight in total, Harper apparently unable to whittle her options down any lower than five, and eight plus two brides is ten, and ten at a small table on a tiny cafe patio is a cramped arrangement. Riley’s elbow keeps colliding with Jayce just as they are trying to bring their fork to their mouth. On Riley’s other side, John communicates mostly through raised eyebrows, unsubtle as his eyebrows are. Harper’s bridesmaids dominate the conversation, leaving the trio to react with the occasional taps to each other’s ankles. 

“God, you are so lucky you’re gay.” This is Blythe, one of Harper’s friends since high school, who has not stopped complaining about her ex-boyfriend since brunch started. Apparently he was bad at communication. “It must be so much easier.”

Jayce makes a quiet choking sound to hide a snort. Riley hits their shin with her boot.

“Yeah, we do innately understand each other,” Harper says, eyes round with sincerity, and Riley tries to keep complete control over her expression. Right, of course, Harper. Intuitive Queen. Abby is smiling and patting her hand. 

On the third round of mimosas, Blythe makes a joke about being outnumbered as a straight girl and decides to do a literal count.

“So me and Jane are straight, that’s two, and Gwen, oh my god, can you imagine?” Blythe and Gwen burst into laughter, as though there is nothing more absurd than a lesbian. “Three straight girls, oh, and Sloane, we can’t forget Sloane.”

Sloane takes a cool sip of her drink, mouth maintaining the usual slight frown. Riley watches her, nothing betrayed there. 

“So there’s only four of us,” Blythe says, and then uses her fork to count the other side of the table. “Harper, of course, she’s not straight anymore. Abby, John, obviously Riley.”  _ Obviously Riley.  _ Riley recalls when Blythe had requested that Riley be given her own locker room for changing into gym uniforms. Recalls Blythe getting drunk on her mother’s wine spritzers when they were sixteen and asking Riley if she thought she was attractive and if not, why. “And...Jayce.” Blythe’s fork hovers in the direction of Jayce, her aggressively-plucked brows furrowing slightly. “Well, Jayce isn’t straight.”

“I’m straight,” Jayce says.

“Oh.” Blythe blinks. “Oh, I didn’t...I don’t think I knew that. So you’re not...well, okay, so Jayce is straight. That changes things. Five versus five. We’re even.”

“I’m kidding.” Jayce chews on a particularly long piece of bacon. “I’m not straight.”

“Six to four.” Jane smiles amiably. “We admit defeat.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Later, as the clearly superior half of the bridal party returns to the cottage, Jayce announces that they are going to hook up with Blythe this weekend.

“I love this chaotic energy.” John examines his earlier purchase: one of many novelty soaps in the shape of a lobster. “I fully support your plan.”

“Didn’t she bring a date?” For this, Riley receives an eye roll from John and a smirking nod from Jayce.

“That means nothing,” John says. “Trust me.”

Of course he’s right. As Riley should know herself.

“We already exchanged numbers at brunch.” Jayce holds up their phone. “She texted me and said she loves making new friends, then she said she wants to get to know me better. Look, she already sent a winky face. Within three texts, a winky face.”

“You’re incredible.” 

Jayce brushes their shoulders off. “Oh, I know.”

Abby, who has decided to take a break from the main house and join her “friends of the bride”, covers her ears. “I’m pretending not to hear any of this.”

John continues picking through his lobsters. “Oh please, we’re celebrating love. Other people are allowed to get laid this weekend besides you blushing brides.” 

“Who else is getting laid?”

Jayce smirks as they type. “Blythe, if she keeps playing her cards right.”

John tightens the drawstring on his pouch of soaps. “Not me.”

“The face you’re making and the fact you’re now blushing says otherwise.”

“Where are the eligible men, Miss Abby?”

Abby shrugs. “Peyton’s gay.”

John sucks a great deal of air in through his teeth. “Peyton. Now why does that name ring a bell?”

“Sloane’s date. She knows him from work. He’s really nice, just shy.”

John snorts. “Not that shy.”

Abby smacks him on the arm. “I knew it. Wow, already?”

“Are you calling me a whore?”

“We’ve only been here one night.”

“And how many days did you and Harper know each other before you moved in? That’s what I thought. I’m not going to talk about relationship speedometers with a sapphic cliche.”

  
  
  
  
  


Overall, it’s been a rather damp Saturday. Not the weather, the weather is as close to perfect as June can get in Maine: jewel-blue skies, warm air heavy with the scent of evergreens and saltwater, a breeze keeping everything pleasant. But the attendees of this upcoming rehearsal dinner have spent most of the day in a state just removed from sober, and it’s only now, adjusting her collar in the bathroom mirror while taking measured breaths, that Riley realizes she has finally lost her buzz. The lack of warmth in her limbs hits especially hard in front of her own frowning reflection, but she is spared from having to contemplate why other things have been all thrumming and eager today by John entering the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and giving her a look of grand conspiracy. Pure drama, even.

“Who is it?”

She smooths down her hair, sniffing in a way that she hopes seems unbothered. No question what this is all about now that the fact of Peyton and John has been revealed and it’s open season on their evening run-in. “Who is who?”

“I know with absolute certainty that you are no moon lesbian.”

“That’s very reductive.”

His glare is unnecessarily accusatory. “Do you have Pisces anywhere in your chart?”

“I’m not really into astrology--”

A gasp. “I  _ knew _ it. Moongazing story is out.”

“Was it ever in?” She gives him a look in the mirror. “How’s Peyton?”

“Just fine, though a little reliant on his tongue when he kisses.” He examines her outfit, which earns an eyebrow of approval. “This is a look.”

“Thanks.”

And it is, she hopes. Riley had spent enough time assembling this particular outfit, knowing its importance would be second only to what she wore to the ceremony. It’s something of a thorn in Riley’s side, that she was raised to think of herself in terms of her appearance first, that she has never entirely recovered from this engrained need to always look her best, her most attractive, the reflection of her material worth. And just like a thorn, buried with little hope of extraction, she does know its source: in one way, it came from watching her mother rate the love of her father on the price of the things she bought with his money, but on the other, it was high school that sealed the deal. Wealthy teenagers spoke one language best, and she needed to be fluent. Needed it not just because she enjoyed fashion, liked looking good in it, but because they could not take it away from her no matter how much they ignored her, isolated her, tried to tear her down in the wake of all that nastiness. 

She went into adulthood, med school included, with some of this righteous fury very much intact: Riley Bennett would look fucking good. She would do so with fat checks deposited in her bank account and a wardrobe to shame them all. Because they would probably keep calling her a dyke, and there was nothing she could do about that, but they’d never say she couldn't dress herself.

“Who’s this look for?”

“John, please don’t take this the wrong way. I think you’re an excellent person, but I have no idea how well you keep secrets.”

“So this is so scandalous that it has to be a secret? Riley Bennett, if you don’t tell me right now.”

“I’m sorry.” She turns, putting both hands on his shoulders. “I just really like the moon.”

He groans. “This is going to be exquisite torture.”

“It’s not.”

“So the next time you sneak out, I’m supposed to pretend I do not see it.”

“There will be no sneaking out.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“I’m serious. You and Jayce can go cavort this weekend, and I will stay home at the cottage and knit.”

“If you don’t like the moon, then I know you don’t like knitting.”

Now it’s Riley’s turn to groan. “Oh my god, the presumptions in this bathroom right now.”

“Fine, fine. I will just say this: from one sneaky slag to another, I respect whatever you are doing. Whoever you are doing.”

“Which is nothing and no one.”

“Well, even so. Should it happen again, you have my full support.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Dinner is behind the main house on the raised platform that extends out from the back porch - if anything attached to this monstrous building can be excused as a “porch” or its peer. It’s all lovely and well-lit and the flower arrangements are tasteful, clearly northwoods-inspired; Martha Stewart would be proud. She might, if her current friendships are anything to go by, also be proud of the fact that John and Jayce shared a joint on the walk over here. Riley chose not to partake; she knows herself well enough to predict head-spinning tonight with or without cannabis.

The loveliness of the decor, for the record, is not the first thing Riley notices. It’s that Sloane’s wearing a cobalt blue dress, and her hair is down. She’s at the far end of the very long, very narrow table - the north end where the whole Caldwell family is seated minus the twins, plus Peyton. Sloane turns slightly in her chair; even from here, Riley can see the edge of the bruise on her shoulder. She shivers. Bold of Sloane to wear a sleeveless dress this evening. Bold of Riley to read into the fact that Sloane deliberately made this choice.

And that’s all. Riley loses track of that end of the table, or at least tries to, gets distracted by the narrow range of conversations that dip in and out of nostalgic stories full of inside jokes that only half of them understand, and then someone has heard Riley is a doctor and what kind of doctor exactly and what does that entail, really, oh, that’s impressive, and Jayce is kicking her under the table with no meaning lost: she’s kind of hitting on you, dude, but no, Riley wants to say, wrong tree, wrong bark.

To anyone not paying attention, the increase in volume at the family end of the table would have been lost, so slight was that escalation, but Riley tilts her head the right way and catches a classic Caldwell smiling argument. She remembers these from when she was at Harper’s beck and call, sitting in their house still in her uniform: the eerie way that the Caldwells fought with each other, their lips pulled back in tight smiles, Tipper looking ghastly when she grinned through her anger. She tries to make out what’s being said, but none of it would be clear anyway. That isn’t their style, to air anything out. Better to keep it damp so it will rot over time.

One voice rises above the others. “Will you excuse me?” 

Sloane is getting to her feet, leaving her napkin on top of her untouched plate before turning on her heel, exiting the scene. The table is long enough that few at this end have noticed, but Riley watches Sloane go through the backdoor of the house, slipping past the caterers. Watches the Caldwell patriarch and matriarch make eye contact with each other, watches Abby staring at Harper, Harper staring at her plate, Jane frowning at everyone. And Sloane now disappeared into the house, everything clear from the way she held herself as she’d gone, shoulders high as a queen.

Fuck.

It washes over her immediately, the urge to go to her. Baffling, actually, this desire Riley feels to be tender and comforting with Sloane of all people. Not only because the other woman seems like the last person to seek out any such emotion, but also because Riley has never been that figure in her relationships: her last girlfriend actually accused her of being “averse” to caretaking, then went on a rant about being sent a delivery order of soup instead of Riley just coming over when she had the flu. Other well-trodden but legitimate complaints about Riley included her choosing work over everything else and her knack for avoiding any possible instance of vulnerability. And yet here she is, distressed over someone else’s distress. Feeling deeply compelled to relieve it.

She counts backwards in her head, tries to decide if enough time has passed to do this subtly. Of course it hasn’t, no time in the world will be an appropriate amount for her to do the exact thing they swore to avoid while up to their shoulders in lakewater, but fuck, fuck, she’s standing up, she’s pushing out her chair, the word “restroom” is leaving her lips of its own accord and she is walking. Somehow she is walking.

When Riley enters the house, she realizes she has no idea where anything is, nor where Sloane has gone. A caterer gives her a look, passing by with an empty tray. The kitchen is furious with activity and so she passes through it into a dining room, then a hall, then an additional sitting room, until the second set of stairs (second!) now in front of her seem promising, or at least quieter.

Difficult to say what she expected to find up the stairs. The first door on the right says “Harper'' in juvenile letters. The second “Jane”, and Riley begins to understand where she is. The ‘children’s wing’ as they might say in a Victorian novel about crumbling manors, or maybe Tipper uses the term unironically. But “Sloane '' is not on the next door. No, this is a bathroom with a claw foot tub, and across the hall is a linen closet and another guest room that seems scrubbed of identity. It’s not until the end of the hall that she comes to the door labeled “Sloane'' in exacting, careful handwriting (easy to imagine that even preadolescent Sloane was being overly precise with her penmanship) and this door is cracked open, the sound of a children’s cartoon on the other side. She pushes it slightly, and the twins turn to look at her, each in their own bean bag chair in front of the laptop on the floor, an open box of pizza between them. They both appear to be in their pajamas.

“Oh,” she says, and then nothing else for a moment, unsure of how to receive their scrutiny. Neither look surprised to see her nor do they seem intrigued, only minutely bothered at being disturbed. 

“Do they want us to come downstairs?” the girl (shit, she can’t remember their names) asks.

“Mom said we didn’t have to go to the fancy dinner,” says her brother.

“Oh, no, I’m not…I was just looking for…”

There’s a door between the bookcases. Riley hadn’t noticed it before but now it’s opening and Sloane is entering the room, holding her heels in one hand. She sees Riley and stands still. 

“Oh, Christ,” she whispers, and then drops onto the bed. “I know you’re too intelligent to think the guest toilet is up here.”

“I might be very stupid.”

“Well, you’re not.” Sloane sighs, letting her shoes fall to the ground. “I won’t ask what you’re doing.”

“Taking in the interior architecture. Self-tour.”

“Right. The ideal thing to do during the rehearsal dinner.” She bends forward, ruffling both of her children’s hair. “And I know you’re not here because you saw what happened with my family and you thought you would conduct a check-in.”

Riley shakes her head, arms folded. Leans against the doorframe. “Never.”

“Because you know that were someone to try and deduce why two women who are barely acquaintances are going to each other for any kind of solace, they might come to conclusions that were meant to be avoided after midnight swims.”

“Oh, of course. We couldn’t have that.”

“No, we couldn’t.” Sloane does not break eye contact, intense as ever, but there is something softening slightly in her brow, easing where Riley has never seen her eased before. “Well, here you are.”

“Here I am.” She licks her lips. Pauses, studying the other woman. The slow rise of Sloane’s ribcage as she breathes hard enough for it to be discernible, controlled enough that it is only just. The way her fingers keep curling, closing, but are resisting a fist. Riley grins. “So this is stop four, I think. On the tour.”

Sloane stares expectantly. “Am I meant to be the source of information?”

“The pamphlet did say you’d be here to offer insights.”

“Right. Of course.” Sloane’s mouth briefly flickers with a smirk. “I think it’s fairly self-explanatory. Eldest daughter’s bedroom in a vacation home with en suite bathroom, by request, so as to not have to share for once in her life. There used to be more signs of individual taste but the matriarch hired a new decorator last year and this room was a casualty. Thus there is nothing on the walls beyond books.” A small smile. “But they are my books.”

Riley gestures towards the nearest shelf. “Am I allowed to peruse?”

“If you want.”

“Oh, I do.” She lifts up the first book she sees. “‘The Prince’?”

“I went through a Machiavellian phase.”

“Did it end?”

“Yes, Bennett, I was twelve.”

“Are you sure?”

Sloane’s tongue is working her back teeth, her eyes narrowing, but it’s the look of someone leaning in to the tease, allowing it to tie itself around her. “I no longer believe that the ends can possibly justify any and all means.”

“I don’t know, you seem to be perfectly fine with any number of questionable means. Bad decisions justify the climactic ends.” She raises her eyebrows. “Did you have an Ayn Rand phase?”

“That’s an accusation, not a question.”

“I seem to recall your campaign for secretary of the Young Republicans.”

“Their scholarships were much more sizeable than the other side of the aisle.”

“We both know you didn’t need scholarships.”

It’s Sloane’s turn to cross her arms. “No, I didn’t have an Ayn Rand phase, and no, my politics are not the same as when I was seventeen, what a shock. Are yours?”

“Less naive but essentially the same.”

“You’re so much more evolved than the rest of us, Bennett.”

“I try.”

They both turn when the door opens again, nearly hitting Riley in the back. It’s Jane and she hasn’t seen the other adult in the room thanks to the angle of the door and Riley’s awkward position behind it, and so starts addressing Sloane with a slight warble in her voice. 

“I knew you’d be up here. I’m sorry she said that. I can’t say she didn’t mean it but I can say that she shouldn’t have even brought it up, it wasn’t the place or time. You know how Harper is, and now she thinks it’s her weekend, which, okay, we know it technically is, but still.” She lets out a long sigh, finally allowing herself to breathe. “Anyway, she won’t do it again. I’ll keep track of it, nip it in the bud before she starts up. Are you alright?” 

Riley can’t see Sloane’s face anymore but can imagine her expression. “I’m fine. I just wanted to come check on the twins anyway.”

“Do you want a hug? No? Does anyone else want a hug from Auntie Jane?”

Both twins volunteer with raised hands. It’s when Jane squats to pull them into a group embrace that she actually sees Riley, standing awkwardly behind the door.

“Riley’s here?”

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Jane blinks. “What are you doing behind there?”

“I was just--”

Sloane interrupts her. “She came in from dinner for the bathroom and the caterers sent her upstairs after me to ask about the next course.”

“Oh, right.” Jane looks between the two of them, and suddenly the effervescent Jane is as unreadable as her eldest sister. “So you’re an errand girl.”

Riley shrugs. “Guilty as charged.”

“I hope they didn’t have bad news. The food has been very good so far.” Jane’s eyes refocus somewhere down the hall through the open door. “Oh, no.”

Sloane gets to her feet. “‘Oh no’ what?”

Jane frowns. “Tipper.”

Their eyes meet: Riley attempting to keep her expression neutral, Sloane’s gaze flashing like a traffic signal. And then the deafening click of heels is upon them and then Tipper is pushing the door even wider, Riley once again having to shift to avoid being crushed.

“It's her wedding, Sloane.”

Jane clears her throat, though she’s gnawing on her bottom lip at the same time. “Mom--”

“You know what this means to Harper.” 

Sloane’s arms tighten around her front, a challenge to her stance. Her voice lowers. “I told you I was going inside to check on the twins. It had nothing to do with what she said.”

“What a coincidence, then. What a marvelous coincidence.”

“If you want to have a disagreement, we can go back down to the table and carry it on there. I won’t do it in front of them.” Sloane jerks her head towards the twins, seemingly unbothered by the grown-ups’ business, much more interested in the talking sponge.

Tipper blinks at her grandchildren. “They eat pizza now?” And then she takes in the room at large, and in this sweeping look, she cannot miss the left half of Riley that is visible despite the presence of the door. “Who is that?” Riley steps out, tries a mild smile. Receives no such thing in return, only a look of grave suspicion. Well, she has a track record. “Why is Riley Bennett here?”

Jane gives Riley a quick touch on the arm, not to reassure Riley as much as she seems to be reassuring her mother. “The caterers sent her upstairs.”

“For what?”

“To ask Sloane about the second course.”

“The second course was just served.”

“Oh,” Jane shrugs. “Then I guess they didn’t need the answer.”

Tipper still hasn’t taken her eyes off of Riley. “What was the question?”

“It doesn’t matter, Mom.” Jane puts her arms out as if to corral the others, moving them toward the exist. “Let’s all head downstairs and--”

“I was asking Riley.”

Riley stares at Tipper. Tipper stares back. “Timing,” she says. “They wanted to ask Sloane about holding off.”

“Well, they didn’t.” Tipper sniffs, remarkably unperturbed by having to hold her in the lock of her glare for this long. “So clearly they are a subpar business, and we’ll have to have a word with them.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Sloane says, her voice no longer at a forced whisper. “I employed them, not you. I paid them, not you.”

Finally, painfully, Tipper removes her gaze from Riley and refocuses it on her daughter. “I’m trying to help, Sloane.”

“You’re not.” Sloane lets out a mirthless bark. “And I don’t have anything else to say to you. Go downstairs. Your obligation is to Harper.”

“So is yours.”

“No,” Sloane says. Something in Riley’s chest hums when she says it. “My obligation is to myself and my children.”

Tipper is silent, looking between Sloane and Riley, jaw tight with the smile she has somehow maintained through this entire conversation. So unnerving. “I get the feeling there is something I’m still not quite grasping.”

“Don’t overthink it.” Jane sighs through her teeth. “Mom, we’re going back to the dinner. This is getting out of hand.”

“Fine.” Tipper waves her hand through the air, fingers wriggling as though untangling some invisible knot. “What do I know? Nothing, I’m sure.”

Jane takes her mother’s arm, patting it gently. “That’s not true and you know it.” And Jane, Saint Jane, escorts her mother out of the room, though Tipper shoots any number of glances over her shoulder at Riley, keeping her in sight until they disappear down the stairs.

The renewal of silence in the hall, the soft swell of cartoon voices, and Sloane collapses onto the bed as though released from a height, limp when she hits the surface. Riley stands still at first, unsure just as she was when she first arrived in the room, shaking slightly from everything that has just transpired. Sloane is staring at the ceiling, blinking. The twins laugh at something on the screen, gnaw on their slices of cold pizza. Riley puts her hand on the doorknob, making up her mind.

“Sit down.”

A command, not a request. A soft command, though. Gentle, rounded at its edges. And so Riley obeys. Sits on the opposite side of the bed, waits. Sloane’s hand takes hers. Squeezes it once, twice. Sloane brings Riley’s palm up to her mouth and presses her lips there, holds them still.

Riley allows herself to be suspended in this moment. Sloane’s lips, Sloane’s mouth warm and slightly wet against the sensitive interior of her hand. She looks over, sees that Sloane’s eyes are shut tight. Riley watches her, the subtle twitch of her brow where she furrows it, the divot that forms above the bridge of her nose, the gentle fluttering of eyelids, the pupils rolling back beneath their surface. Sloane’s breathing hard and steady again, so controlled.

“Don’t let me take up your time,” Sloane whispers.

Riley swallows. “I don’t mind.”

“And don’t let me waste it.”

“I don’t mind that either.”

And just as quickly as it had happened, Sloane releases her hand, lets it return to Riley’s lap, and gives her a slight push on the spine, a message to stand up. “Go back to the dinner,” she says. “I’ll stay here a bit longer. They’ll probably be drunk enough not to notice how much time has passed.” She opens one eye, narrows it at Riley. “Go now. I won’t ask again.”

Of course she won’t. Because Sloane Caldwell has never had to ask anyone twice. She does not mingle with those types.

Riley, though, sometimes needs a bit of extra instruction.

She turns, bends over Sloane and kisses her very hard on the neck. Sloane releases a single ‘oh’ into the air, her hand finding a fistful of Riley’s hair, but she does not immediately pull her away. She doesn’t need to, in the end. Riley is the one who sits up, slides off the bed in a single motion, and quickly leaves the room. Grinning, she should add.

  
  
  
  
  


John gives her a look when she sits back down. “Are you okay?”

She smirks. “I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Oh, girl, same. Don’t get me started. But do I still eat ice cream? Cheese? Constantly. Delicious misery, am I right?”

“Quite right.”

Minutes later, Sloane emerges from the back door, a slice of pizza in her hand. She is halfway through by the time she sits down, chewing, smiling at her family. Riley watches her, waits, and when Sloane looks over, she nods. Once. It’s all Riley needs.

God, she’s so fucking intense. God, it’s a terrible idea, and Riley has no intention of giving it up.


	4. rule four: no processing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so for the sake of this story's canon, there was no physical fighting/wrestling at the christmas party because, well, it's a comedy movie, and i think the application of this narrative to that medium means there will be slapstick for the sake of slapstick, but here, everything that was said was also said in this canon, just without the fisticuffs

There was to be no bachelorette party. This message had come from Harper and Abby themselves via email a few months ago, citing reasons that seemed straight out of a naively informative Instagram story one closes no sooner than it has been opened: bachelorette parties are regressive practices that imply marriage is some kind of sentence; the “one last night of freedom” concept is problematic due to implications of incarceration; additionally, they do not plan to alter their behavior after being married and thus do not need an evening to behave any particular way as though this would then be deprived to them. 

Riley recalls snorting at the email and then texting Abby a joke about hearing from her legal team; Abby had feigned offense and sent back Law & Order gifs. 

She’d swallowed the temptation to text Sloane - an actual lawyer, after all, on whom law jokes might be better spent - but this was during that strange and tender in-between time when the bruises on Sloane’s skin were probably faded to a mere hint of lavender, her scent now fully washed from Riley’s things. Riley’s suitcase had been emptied and put back into the closet after weeks of sitting next to her bed, full and rumpled, heavy as a talisman. She’d open her phone to do something else and tap on their text conversation as if it were not stagnant, as if her last response had not been marked as read and nothing more. She’d find herself typing something bold or stupidly simple only to delete it a few seconds later, and she would do this repeatedly when she was either tired or midway through a second glass of wine or both. 

Once, she’d opened the app to see three dots on Sloane’s side: she was typing something. Riley had held her breath, carefully setting the phone down as though it were a wired explosive, not daring to do anything that might interrupt the message, but said message never came. Whatever Sloane had typed had been deleted swiftly or was sitting, finished or unfinished, on Sloane’s phone, never to be sent. Riley could picture the flicker of Sloane’s slim thumbs across the glass, the soft sound of her manicured nails like rain from another room. She could picture Sloane’s face lit up in the dark, her sheets - emerald satin, Riley had learned in those two nights, another detail that felt unexpected and yet perfectly suitable - pulled over her knees. Yet there was never a response. Not until last night, the reply that came when Riley had finally had the courage to nudge her, and then there was the lakewater and the cold air and the very warm mouth of Sloane pressed to hers, the dark sway of pines above them, the ground beneath sighing and damp, needles in their flesh that stung in a satisfying way. 

Now, here in the top bunk a day later, two showers later, she knows there is a smear of pine pitch along her spine that she has yet to fully scrub away. Maybe she wants to keep it there, to see if the next time Sloane touches her, it catches her fingers, makes them stay.

Christ’s sake, she thinks. Listen to me. She turns over, covers her head with the second pillow. Tries to drown her own thoughts out. Riley Bennett, you useless yearner.

The bachelorette party, that’s what this thought was meant to be about. Yes, she had returned from the rehearsal dinner and climbed into the top bunk with every intention of dozing through the night because no, she had not expected there to be a bachelorette party.

What wakes her up is not her own body having acquired enough sleep, but John’s hand on her shoulder, giving it an insistent shake.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” he stage whispers, and she lifts her head to see that he is dressed for a club, including a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses that won’t be of much help to him at this hour, which she assesses is just before midnight

She blinks in confusion, sleep finally shaken off enough to comprehend what’s before her. “What’s going on?”

“Surprise bachelorette party, girl.”

“Abby said they didn’t want--”

“No, _Harper_ said they didn’t want one, and we both know she has no taste.”

Riley sits up, suddenly all too aware of how long it will take her to get ready to the point of matching his energy and look. Aware, too, that she did not bring an extra outfit for this and it’s not like there aren’t people here she deeply wants to impress. “You couldn’t have told me about this earlier? Why am I being hazed?”

“Last minute decision-making.”

“By who?”

“Me and Jane. The fun Caldwell sister.” She thinks he winks beneath his shades, though it is hard to tell. “Okay, I’ll see you outside in ten.”

“Ten,” she deadpans. “How butch do you think I am?”

“Fine, twenty. But no more than twenty, the wake-up crew waits for no one. Not even Dr. Bennett and her suits.”

“The wake-up what?”

“You have nineteen minutes and fifty four seconds!” And with that, he is gone. The room, still dark, is quiet again, and she realizes Jayce is not in the bunk beneath her. And then from the kitchen comes the first notes of “Heaven or Las Vegas” absolutely blasting, half-shaking the walls. No hope of going back to sleep now.

  
  
  
  
  


She is more wrinkled than she’d like to be as she follows John and Jayce towards the main house, Blythe and Gwen giving the occasional high-pitched yelp when their heels sink into the soft earth. The third time this happens, Jayce offers their hand until they all make it across the grass to the stone pavers. There, Jane is standing in the low light of a side door, waving and grinning.

“Come in quietly,” she whispers, finger raised to her lips, though she raises her eyebrows at Blythe’s noisy Louboutins, followed by the clack of Gwen’s platforms. “Or at least as quietly as those will allow.” She smirks at Riley’s Chelseas. “Sensible footwear, good choice. Even better if they’re waterproof.”

“They’re Saint Laurent,” Riley says, almost in defense, but Jane gives her a genial knock on the arm and for a brief panicked moment, Riley wonders if Jane had seen these same boots sitting unaccounted for on a lakeside boulder last night, but no, that’s not possible, and besides, Jane’s grinning as she nudges her up the stairs and into a familiar corridor, all warmth and cheerfulness and not an ounce of suspicion, though it’s Riley who ties suspicion and negativity together, somehow never assuming one could know something and approve of it. At the same door that nearly crushed her hours ago, she holds her breath as Jane lifts her knuckles.

Sloane’s door opens after only two knocks, and it is evident that she was also uninformed of John and Jane’s last-minute plans; her hair is only half up, losing a battle with itself, and her makeup has been removed, her eyes made all the larger by the effect. When not post-coital, it appears that Sloane sleeps in a set of black silk pajamas, her initials embroidered in white on the left breast. They sit just above her crossed arms as Jane explains the evening’s plot, and Riley chooses not to look at them again, painfully aware of what is beneath.

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, we’re not.” Jane smiles. “We thought it would be a fun surprise.”

“Well, I’m certainly surprised.” Indeed, though Sloane could not look less amused with the situation. “Where is this meant to take place?”

“The destination is part of the surprise.”

“If the destination results in everyone leaving the estate and then being hungover for the one day that needs to run smoothly, I can’t say I’ll agree to it.”

“We’re not going anywhere we can’t walk on foot.”

“Blythe and Gwen are physically incapable of a hike, Jane, even in the daylight.”

“They’ll be fine. Anyway, you have twenty minutes, then you meet us downstairs.”

Sloane steps back and mostly out of sight, only her fingers on the door still visible to Riley. Freshly done nails, pale and pointed. Long. A thought that has no place here in this mostly wholesome plan crosses Riley’s mind: she should ask Sloane to scratch her next time, really claw at her back when she tries to hold herself in place. But it’s so presumptuous - this fantastical “next time” - and Riley wonders if she’s blushing, is grateful for the lack of light. Sloane closes the door, apparently having agreed to the situation, and Jane gestures toward the other end of the hall with a grin.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Outside of the door marked with Harper’s name, Jane gathers them with a hush and a few mysterious hand gestures before knocking.

There’s a noise on the other side of the door, a few words that seem sharply delivered, even if too muffled to make out, and then a long pause. Jayce and Riley exchange a look; Jane’s smile is beginning to tire, her brow twitching not unlike her eldest sister’s. Finally, the door is opened by Harper, and interestingly, Harper and Abby are both dressed, the room fully lit, closed suitcases on the bed. There is a distinctly awkward air, the sense that something has been disturbed, and that something was not going well.

“Jane,” Harper starts, and Riley tries to make eye contact with Abby, who is now gnawing her lip, sitting next to the luggage. Abby seems preoccupied with the back of Harper’s head.

“Surprise,” Jane whispers, still maintaining her pose. “You are being acquired for a surprise bachelorette party, and you have no choice but to join us.”

“Oh,” Harper says. She glances back at Abby, her knuckles white on the doorframe. “I don’t think we really planned for that.”

“Well of course you didn’t,” Jane says. “That’s why it’s a surprise.”

Harper’s voice lowers as she leans forward, her cheeks blanched when she turns towards Jane and away from the group, though they are all in too close quarters to miss what is being said. “Honestly, now is not really a good time--”

But Abby is standing, pushing past her betrothed to join the rest. She clears her throat. “No,” she says, putting on a tight smile. “Let’s do it. I’m ready. Surprise me.”

Harper looks down at Abby; Abby stares back, the slightest tinge of defiance in her stance. Jane’s expression remains chipper as ever but there’s something in her eyes giving away what is likely running through her mind: oh dear, this isn’t a good sign at all. Riley silently agrees.

“Fine,” Harper gives in, shoulders slouching. “Sure.” She smirks at Blythe and Gwen, who seem to have missed all the subtleties in these past moments, already excitedly yanking on the arms of their half of the brides.

“Perfect.” Jane’s hands meet for a single clap. 

  
  
  
  
  


Well, it’s closer to a teenage secret than it is a bachelorette party, but there is something charming about sitting on a moonlit beach for the past hour, passing around bottle after bottle of alcohol as though it were all stolen from an unwatched cabinet, a bonfire snapping and hissing at their knees. Riley feels a bit like she’s in high school again, not that she was usually invited to these kinds of parties, but they were certainly held by some of the people currently sharing her company, and she would hear the stories on the following Mondays: the pretty girls holding each other’s hair when they vomited, the lacrosse players receiving competent head in someone’s father’s study. Harper had been a good girl by nearly every parental definition, but she still attended parties like that, became known and admired and even more desirable for the fact she kissed the other girls when she was drunk. Riley remembers the cruel irony of people giving her a wide berth between classes while Harper was celebrated for her adventurousness. Later, much later, a more worldly Riley would realize that this was probably the only way Harper felt comfortable expressing her sexuality. Enough of a revelation for Riley to consider pitying her, which she knew was not the same as forgiveness.

And now Riley is sitting on the beach of the Caldwell vacation home, preparing to attend Harper’s wedding. Life, such a strange thing, etcetera etcetera. Besides, it’s Abby she’s here for, Abby who is currently sitting next to her on this blanket, a red solo cup between her feet. Gwen and Blythe are cackling at something John’s said, Jane and Jayce are drunkenly mixing drinks on a towel fast-collecting sand, Harper keeps shooting looks at Abby and only half-participating in the conversation. And Sloane, Sloane sits on the other side of the fire, and Riley sees her through the flames, her features veiled by sparks, and controls her breathing.

“Fuck this,” Abby mutters. Riley doesn’t hear it at first - John brought a speaker and what began as the Cocteau Twins has turned into similar decibels of Kate Bush - but Abby says it again, her feet twitching. Riley reaches out to catch her drink before it falls over, finds the cup has been emptied.

Riley feels like discretion is important now, leans in a little and lowers her voice. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Abby says, her voice so dry it sounds more like the wood in front of them, heating and splitting.

“Because you don’t seem good.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Name it.”

"I told you I drove off at Christmas, right?” Riley nods. Abby gnaws her bottom lip as she talks. “Do you think that was my one shot? Like, I’ve used it up? If I got up, I couldn’t drive off now because I had the opportunity and I already made my choice?”

Ah, so this is what it’s all about. And now Riley feels dense for not seeing the signs - Abby’s tension at the dinner, the way she’d looked so grateful for John and Jayce and Riley when they’d all first arrived, how she’d lingered yesterday at the cottage and seemed hesitant to leave. Riley hadn’t read into it enough because she was so busy having a crisis of pining and thinking with her lower brain and here was Abby, falling out of love, or at least coming to terms with it.

“I think we always have choices.” She gives her a gentle nudge with her elbow. “Did something happen?”

“Yes,” and Abby digs her palms into her eyes, rubs until Riley imagines they’ll be sore. “And no. If I said I was going to go pee, could you come with me and talk?”

Riley nods. And Abby stands, gives a little awkward wave to the group and explains they both need to empty their bladders, and gestures towards the trees. Harper sits up on her blanket, mouth half-open, and then slumps, nothing to say or perhaps too drunk to say it. The others are busy laughing, mirth-making, being too far gone to notice subtle cues.

Riley chances a look at Sloane, Sloane in her silent and intense corner, expects her to be glowering away, but Sloane is looking back at her, a careful expression, almost penitent. Watching her intensely. Riley has no idea how to communicate this with her eyes, the complexity of the situation, but lifts her eyebrows, hopes it’s enough, and then follows Abby towards the treeline.

  
  
  
  
  


“You know, sometimes I think I’m just really fucking desperate for a family, and here she was with all these stories of her parents and her sisters and sailboats and turkey dinners and I think I just fell for this fantasy, I fell for the slot I imagined would just be waiting for me, how I’d fit right in. I should have known, though, right? I should have known at Christmas. It wasn’t going to work. No one was waiting for me here. No one was going to take up all these spaces I thought I didn’t have to live with anymore. God, that feels pathetic to say.”

Abby’s crouched under a tree, running her fingers over each other, gnawing the inside of her mouth. Riley sits across from her in the underbrush, listening. Knowing that’s what she can do now, wishing she’d had the sense to do it earlier, too.

“It’s not pathetic. The complete opposite. Sometimes love is an extension of grief.”

“I want to love her. I do love her. I just don’t think that’s enough. Because I love who she is when we’re alone together, but then there are all these pieces of her in the world that aren’t that person, and I see them and I think, oh, I don’t like that person, I don’t think that person would even like me, and I don’t know what the fuck to do.” Abby takes a deep breath. “I’m spiraling here, dude. I’m rambling big time. I’m definitely drunk and high but I’m also definitely rambling.”

“That’s okay, you’re okay. Everything you’re saying and feeling is valid. I promise.”

“And I actually like her family, that’s what is crazy. Like at first I kind of thought they were a nightmare but Jane? Jane’s awesome, I love Jane. Sloane’s actually really great, too. Her parents are still chilly, and after Christmas, I decided I could live with that. I could make it work. But as soon as I see Harper around them all, I just...I don’t know who she is anymore. She and Sloane got in this massive fight a few months ago, right around the time Sloane moved to New York. Harper’s parents were against the move, which is stupid, right, it’s just about control with them, but then Harper, fuck, Harper literally acted like their enforcer, like they were paying her to take it out on Sloane. She was their little messenger or something, it was insane. I can’t even repeat the things she said to her, even about the twins. Like Harper saying Sloane wasn’t a good mother. And I know Sloane seems like a bitch and she is but she’s a really, really good mom, and it was just...it was on another level, dude. So this weekend, I thought it was all resolved but again, she’s bringing up this shit, Harper, I mean, and I don’t know how to handle it because she’s my Harper, you know? My Harper. The Harper I know when it’s just us, she’s so sweet and caring and sensitive, and then the second she thinks she can benefit from something, the second her parents ask for something, even minor, she’s different. I love my Harper. I love her so much, I think I could make the best life with my Harper. But Harper is not just my Harper, you know? And I don’t know what to do with that. Wait. Shit.” Abby leans over and vomits into the pine needles, a quick and smooth projectile, before leaning back against the tree. “Sorry, that’s not even the alcohol. I always do this when I’m this anxious.”

“Hey,” Riley rubs her shoulder. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” 

“Sorry,” Abby says.

“No, don’t apologize, dude.”

“No, I’m sorry because I actually do need to pee now. I’m going to go over behind that tree, okay?” 

She nods, turns the other way towards the glow of fire on the beach, the faint sound of Fleetwood Mac and high-pitched shrieks. She’s un-sober enough to feel slightly nauseous from the smell of vomit, sober enough to sense the avalanche of shit that this conversation is about to trigger. The downhill slope that awaits this weekend that most of those still drinking at the bonfire are blissfully unaware of, may not be privy to until tomorrow morning. Her phone buzzes against her thigh. Sloane.

> She’s calling it off, isn’t she?
> 
> I think so.
> 
> Can you keep an eye on things over there?
> 
> Alcohol keeping things jovial.
> 
> Harper’s distracted.
> 
> Is she alright?
> 
> No, but that’s not changing any time soon.
> 
> If she wants to fly out tomorrow, I’ll pay for it.
> 
> You don’t have to tell her that, though.
> 
> Just tell her everyone chipped in if she asked.
> 
> That’s really generous, Sloane.
> 
> She has been enormously kind.

  
  


Twigs snap behind her, and Abby reemerges, wiping at her face and eyes, red and damp. 

“So,” she says, hands sliding into her pockets. “So, that’s all out now.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I think I need to go for a ride.”

“Got it.”

“Is that too repetitive of me? Predictable?”

“It’s been months. Two for two, no big deal.”

“Is anyone sober enough to drive?”

“I…” She glances towards the spot of fire, considers the fact that the last time she saw John he was lying on his back gurgling lyrics, that Jayce was tangled with Blythe, Jane dancing in a frenzy as if performing a ritual before the flames. But Sloane, no solo cup in sight, politely refusing whatever had been offered, was still sitting on that blanket. “Well, actually, there might be someone.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


> Are you sober?
> 
> Very much so.
> 
> Is Peyton the only one who can drive that monstrosity?
> 
> I am also on the rental form.
> 
> Excellent.

  
  
  
  
  
  


This is the destination Abby had requested: not the airport, not Bangor, not even a jaunt through the national park. A gas station on the way to Bar Harbor, tiny and lit by flickering neon, a small model of a lighthouse attached crookedly to the roof. Abby is on her back in the middle row of the Hummer, peeling back a push pop, staring at the ceiling as she absently licks it. Every few minutes, she gives a loud sniff, makes a small choking sound that is undoubtedly her attempt at preventing tears, and then returns to quiet. She’d said when they’d first left the driveway that she didn’t want to talk, but to just be, to think, and they’d only had to pull over once for her to throw up, though she swore this time it was actually from being drunk, not just the emotions. That seemed believable.

Riley has an orange popsicle; not her first choice, but the only acceptable choice in a limited freezer. Sloane had taken the other half of it when Riley had broken it off and offered. Sloane sits behind the wheel now, her eyes on the prone occupant in the back of the car, the popsicle occasionally disappeared into her mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” Abby croaks, sniffing wetly, emotion blended with inebriation and turned again to tears. “I really am.”

“Why are you sorry?” Sloane’s voice is a new one, and Riley realizes this is her “mother voice”, the one she likely uses on her children. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Abby.”

“I made you drive out here.”

“You didn’t make anyone do anything. We were more than happy to help.”

“But the party and everything…”

Riley attempts a chuckle. “Just a fire and some shelf liquor.”

“Did you stop drinking for me?”

Sloane shakes her head. “I never started.”

Riley snorts. “Yeah, why aren’t you drinking? I didn’t knock you up, did I?”

And Riley has certainly had a bit to drink tonight, it’s true, and Riley certainly gets a little reckless and ahead of herself when she’s around Sloane, but there is really no reason for her to drop that particular joke right now. Sloane freezes, stares at her with such intensity that it could only have been dredged from the depths of the earth, and Riley freezes in turn, swallows heavily. There is a pregnant pause before anyone speaks, but if Abby has noticed that particular line in her current state, she gives no sign of it, rolling over onto her side and covering her head with her jacket, letting out a groan, push pop truly cached and finished. From beneath the jacket, a quiet wheeze and question:

“Is it okay if I sleep?”

  
  
  
  
  


On the sagging bench in front of the gas station, positioned just to the right of the shining beacon of the Hummer - currently a cozy container for one sleeping runaway bride - Riley Bennett sits with a popsicle stick hanging out of the corner of mouth, somewhat like a cigar. A thigh’s length away, enough that it means something, Sloane Caldwell is licking her fingers clean of her own popsicle’s remains, missing the translucent trail that runs between her middle and forefinger, a curved line down the cleft of her knuckle. Riley stares, completely captivated by this miniscule part of the other woman’s flesh, tempted by some base urge to finish the job for her.

“I did worry that you and I could ruin the wedding, but this was not what I pictured.” Sloane finally removes her hand from her mouth, still sitting up straight, her posture never completely unseated. 

“There’s still time. It might all come out and overshadow the fact that we are aiding a fugitive.”

“I should have seen this coming after everything with Harper.”

“Abby mentioned that.”

Sloane turns her head just enough for the moonlight to catch along her jaw, illuminating the shape of her cheeks, the roundness of her eyes. “I don’t want to discuss it, for the record. I don’t know what she said but I don’t need to talk about it. It’s done.”

“Of course.” Riley nods as though she had not been prepared to process any of Sloane’s pains or concerns for hours. “I know what you mean, though. I feel like an idiot for not noticing what was going on. I mean, for months, too. She never told me how bad it was.”

“That’s what people do, Bennett. They reveal nothing that they wouldn’t want to admit to themselves. Patch the cracks with tape and pretend it’s never been better.” Her eyes narrow slightly, her focus somewhere past the parking lot. Riley tries to follow her gaze, out into the dark line of trees. She imagines them set on fire. “I’m glad it was me, actually, who you asked. I understand her. The divorce is still fresh.”

Riley feels silly for how much her voice bends under this inquiry. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Sloane says, and then looks over at her, her brow twitching, even dipping a little, a feat for her, before she corrects herself. “It is, but not that way, Bennett.”

“I mean, look, I don’t mind being a rebound.”

“Which you’re not, and the fact I have to state that outright is slightly insulting.”

“I don’t even mind being an experiment.”

Sloane rolls her eyes, tongue flipping between her teeth. Apparently this has earned no answer, so Riley continues, perhaps exhausted enough to trip right into it:

“I hope this hasn’t all been too confusing.”

Sloane’s eyebrow raises, her face twisting into a new expression. “You’ve lost me.”

“Well, you know,” and Riley gestures between the two of them. “Me being a woman and all.”

“Why would that be confusing for me? Your gender is not terribly difficult to perceive, despite your proclivity for pantsuits.”

“Right, but if I’m the first woman--”

“The first woman what? With a doctorate? I don’t think I’ve ever slept with a doctor before, but that’s no reason for me to spiral into a crisis, or whatever you think is happening.”

“So you’ve done this before.”

“I can’t be that much of a pillow queen.”

“I mean, you’re not. No, not at all, I just…” She is sure her cheeks are on fire, the parking lot feeling much warmer suddenly, the salt air pressing so very close. “Okay, so you’re not straight?”

“Which part of us sleeping together have you been absent for, Bennett?”

“But are you out?”

Sloane sighs, though it is clearly threaded through with frustration, a big tight knot of it. “You’re highly intelligent, Bennett. We don’t need to be so reductive.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“Is it? I don’t know your definition of…” She curls her fingers into air quotes, raises her eyebrows. “Out.”

“Does your family know?”

“Know what?”

“That you’re not straight, Sloane.”

Sloane rolls her eyes. “What is this, the nineties? What occasion calls for me to explain that aspect of my life to them as if it were abnormal and ominous?”

“I mean, it is abnormal. Technically.”

“By whose definition?”

“We don’t live in a utopia, Sloane. These things have meaning.”

“What things? Sitting my parents down and telling them that I am aroused by women in addition to men? Odd for me to do given I never once discussed my sexuality with them in regards to the men.”

“Right, but they’d assume--”

“And what of it? Why do I need to involve myself in their assumptions? I have spent my entire life having false things assumed of me. Actively harmful things, at times. They were also entirely out of my control. Let me tell you what happens when I correct those assumptions: nothing. People see me, they see me with my children, they see me doing one thing or another, they assume things. Even if I flagged them down and gave them a pamphlet, it wouldn’t do any good. Nor is it my job.”

“But you outed Harper.”

“Harper,” Sloane narrows her eyes again, not bothering to hide her venom. “I thought Abby told you about what Harper said.”

“This was before that, at Christmas.”

“We’ve lived an entire life before Christmas, decades. I am not particularly proud of the delivery, but I revealed her lie. I saw the harm it was doing.”

“Which was also outing her.”

“I know you’d like to make this political, Bennett, but it really isn’t. I’m actually surprised to hear it from you of all people.”

And now, perhaps, Riley does get a bit ahead of herself, though she thinks she is justified. “Really, you’re surprised that someone who was forced out of the closet would be a little offended by you outing someone against their will.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Against her will? Please, Bennett. And tell me about this closet you were in, what were the dimensions? I’m sorry my sister was such a cunt to you, I really am. I’m sorry you weren’t the homecoming queen and I’m sorry you didn’t win any popularity contests at a school full of teenagers whose main goal was to be cruel even to people they liked. But at the end of the day, that was over a decade ago and it doesn’t invalidate your experience to admit the situation between myself and Harper is different.”

Riley has to stop herself from gritting her teeth. “You’re not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not.”

“I’m not trying to play the victim here.”

“I know that, because you’re not. And neither am I. And neither is Harper. I’m not proud of December. It was a difficult, miserable, trying time for any number of reasons, some of which do not involve that party or even my sister.” Sloane sniffs, a strange sharp noise, and Riley realizes, somehow, that for most of this debate, Sloane has actually been preventing the release of her own tears. “My parents adore nothing more than controlling everything and everyone. And Harper’s just like them, I’m sure you’ve noticed. Her greatest trick is controlling the narrative. I believe you were once a victim of that trick.” Sloane makes eye contact, brief and intense. “I don’t want your sympathy, or your understanding, or your forgiveness. If you find me repulsive or disagreeable now, that’s fine. I will not change my stance and I do not want you to change yours, I will not try to convince you. It’s not my place and it’s not my wish. I don’t want to take away anything that is important to you.” Another sniff, and then Sloane sits up straight, composes herself. Steadies her voice. “To answer your initial question, Jane is aware. Harper is, too, though she has a selective memory. But no, neither of them learned through any formal conversation, and my parents will remain unaware, until, by some chance that has nothing to do with me, they are informed that their eldest daughter is now dating a woman. If that is someday the case, of course.”

There is quiet now, a long silence eagerly filled by the sound of night insects and lone insomniac gulls and the wind in the trees. 

“I don’t know what to say.” Riley tries to match her breath to Sloane’s, the other woman finally breathing audibly for the first time she can remember. It’s when she chances a glance at Sloane again that it dawns on her. “You’re scared.”

“Of course I’m scared. This is terrifying, Bennett.”

“Is it?”

“It is for me.” Sloane gets to her feet, the popsicle stick previously drying in her lap now discarded into the trash. She runs her hands over her thighs, adjusts her hair. Puts her armor back on. “We have to focus on Abby right now. Everything else can take a backseat.”

Inside, Abby is still sleeping, her snores slightly muted by the jacket. Sloane pulls it off her face, gently tucks it around her shoulders. Clears the sleeping woman’s hair from her face, smooths her cheek with her hand, gives her a sad maternal smile. Riley watches her, thinks a thousand thoughts, lets them drift away just as quickly as they came, sensing the utter danger of them. 

Sloane looks at her phone before turning on the car, sighing. “It’s Jane,” she says. “They may have sobered up enough to realize what’s going on.” 

“Fuck.”

“Indeed.”

“Tomorrow is going to be..."

“I know,” Sloane says. “I know."


	5. rule five: no asking what you really want

Jane is standing in the driveway, halfway between the gatehouse and the main house; they turn a corner and the lights catch her pacing figure just beside the trees, lifting both arms to wave them down. Sloane inhales sharply as she slows to a stop, caught off-guard, her right hand falling to grab Riley’s on the divider between them. Riley watches the sudden blanching of Sloane’s face from the side, the way it craters as she clearly bites down on the inside of her cheek, and then Sloane removes her hand, places it back on the wheel. Sloane’s knuckles are white; the air over Riley’s own knuckles is cold where it registers the sudden absence of warmth.

“Sorry,” she says, the word riding an exhale. 

“Don’t apologize,” Riley whispers. 

“I want to apologize,” Sloane says, her voice low but insistent, firm, and she looks at Riley now, lit only by the blue and green features of the dashboard. Like stars of two colors where they cluster in her pupils. “I do.”

It’s the first time they’ve addressed each other since the ride back began; as they’d left the gas station parking lot, Sloane had turned on the gentle voice of a public radio announcer, a classical music show dipping in and out of service, and thus in and out of Prokofiev, then Bartók, and Riley had stared out the window into darkness, her eyes occasionally resting as the static came and went. She remembers looking over at Sloane as the music had ended, the announcer returning.  _ That was ‘Romanian Folk Dances for Orchestra.’ Thank you for joining us on this very late night. Next we have -- _ Sloane’s eyes were on the road, her face impossible to read.

Now Jane hurries across the path of the headlights, tapping softly at the driver’s window. She’s wearing the beach blanket around her shoulders like a shawl, her eyes red from what might be exhaustion or the rare encounter with marijuana or both. Sloane rolls down the window, and Jane stands on her tiptoes to peer into the backseat: Abby is still sleeping, wrapped in the jacket where Sloane had earlier bundled her.

“Is she…?”

Sloane nods. “Yes. How did things end up?”

“Everyone’s asleep. Passed out, essentially, though they’re back in the cottage or the house, hopefully on mattresses and not the floor. No guarantees, though.”

“Harper?”

Jane’s mouth tightens into a neutral line, a similar expression to her older sister. “I’ve never seen her this drunk. I put her to bed an hour ago.” 

A sharp inhale through Sloane’s teeth, her knuckles stirring on the wheel. “Christ.” She sighs, then, and gestures behind her. “Get in and we’ll give you a ride back up to the house.”

“No, I walked down here to catch you. Drive around to the cottage instead - there’s no guest room available and she should be with her friends in the morning, I think.” 

“I see.” Sloane turns to Riley, eyebrows knitted. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” And Riley nods in return, attempts to look reassuring.

Jane makes an extra effort to close the door quietly as she sits down. “Mom and Dad and everyone else seem to have slept through it all. No stirring from their wing or elsewhere. Hopefully they aren’t up at the crack of dawn, but I’ll take care of it if they are. Those two will need to have time to talk before everything starts up.” She looks behind her at sleeping Abby, smiling sadly. “Poor thing. Is it weird that I feel responsible?”

Sloane shakes her head. “I understand.”

“I love Harper. I mean, she’s our sister, of course I love her.” Riley watches Sloane’s face as Jane speaks, though nothing is revealed there. “But after everything this winter and spring, after everything that happened with you, Sloane, maybe I should have…well...” Jane falls silent.

“There isn’t anything we could have done.”

“I love Abby, too, you know. She feels like a part of our lives now.” Jane is still watching her, leaning over the back of her seat. “Poor thing,” she whispers again, and then they are taking the next turn down another dirt road, all of them quiet.

When Sloane stops the car behind the cottage, Riley gets out and opens the door on Abby’s side, gives the sleeping woman a gentle nudge on the shoulder. “End of the line,” she whispers, and Abby opens her eyes in the dark, letting out a long exhale as her lashes flutter.

“Are we back?”

Riley nods. “We’re at the cottage. Surprise sleepover.”

Abby makes a sleepy noise, her throat clearing. She rubs at her face. “Is Harper, um…”

“She’s pretty out of it. If you want us to take you up to the main house, we can, but we thought you might want to wait until morning.”

“Oh.” Abby sits up with Riley’s help, slides out of the car. “Yeah, shit. I’ll stay here. Okay. Just give me a second, sorry.” She stops mid-walk to the cottage door, bending over. “I have to throw up again.”

And it’s Sloane now who is suddenly at her side, rubbing at Abby’s back, as Jane holds her jacket and Riley holds her arm. “That’s alright, do what you have to do,” Sloane whispers. “Let’s get you into bed and we’ll find you a bucket, too.”

The cottage is pitch black when they get in, the door to John’s room closed. Riley knows the couch in the small parlor folds out and assumes that’s where they can put Abby, but is surprised to find that the bottom bunk of her bed is empty, Jayce nowhere to be seen. She comes back into the kitchen where Abby is sitting in a chair with a chore pail between her knees, Sloane’s protective hand on her spine. Jane’s filling a glass of water at the sink, the blanket still over her shoulders.

“Looks like we have a vacancy,” Riley gestures towards the hall. “Good news. We can be bunkmates. Like gay little sailors.”

And so that is what they do. Abby falls into the bottom bunk with a stuttering exhale, and Sloane kneels next to her, pulls the covers over Abby’s curling limbs. Riley hands her the pail, which they set on the floor next to the fresh glass of water Jane deposits along with a hug and a sad smile and a wish for very good dreams until she sees her in the morning.

“Riley will be right above you if you need anything,” Sloane says, and pats Abby’s arm as she stands up. “Try to sleep some of this off.”

Abby’s hand shoots out from beneath the blanket, grabbing Sloane’s. “Sloane,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Sloane pauses at the door. “You won’t lose us, Abby. Jane and I aren’t going anywhere, no matter what happens. I just want you to know that.”

Abby’s quiet, no response beyond a stilted sniff, and then there’s a sound like a sigh. “Okay,” she says, her voice small, and flips over onto her other side.

In the kitchen, Jane gives Riley a tight-smiled goodnight before going outside, the door closing behind her. Riley stands next to the table, watching Sloane shift her weight from one foot to the other. The other woman is stalling.

“Are you going to sleep now?” Sloane asks, and Riley shakes her head.

“Don’t think I could after all this. I’ll probably just stare at the ceiling, given it’s only an inch away from my nose.”

“Well,” Sloane says, hands briefly finding her own hips, forming fists there. “You should sleep.”

“Thanks.” Riley waits, not knowing what will come next, only knowing that she wants many things she can’t have at this minute. Fills the gap out of nerves, more than anything. “And thanks for driving.”

“Of course.” Sloane is biting the inside of her cheek again. “Thank you for the popsicle.”

“Half a popsicle. Nothing special.”

“The unbroken popsicle is two full popsicles, so one half is actually one full popsicle.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I think the definition of a popsicle is dependent on the presence of the stick, so the presence of two sticks indicates two popsicles.”

This, finally, breaks Riley, and she can’t help but smirk. “The defense rests, Your Honor.” 

Sloane looks slightly flustered, but that jaw of hers is beginning to tighten again. The tell. “I know you’ll look after her, but text me if anything happens, okay?”

“Sure. Absolutely.”

Sloane finally takes a step toward her, then halts again. “I meant what I said earlier, about not objecting if you want this weekend to have been the end of it. I don’t want you to feel you owe me an explanation. With everything going on, you can make a clean break and I will honor that, I promise.”

“Is that what you want, Sloane?”

Sloane is quiet, staring at her in that way of hers, as if Riley is the only thing here, the rest of the universe declared uninteresting. Sloane’s chest rises in the dim light with more effort; she is breathing harder. Riley can see it from here. “Please don’t ask me what I want,” Sloane says, her voice so low it is nearly a whisper, but each syllable is sharp, taut as a rope.

Still, Riley finds herself wanting to tie it around her neck. 

“Why?”

But Sloane shakes her head, lips sealed. The door suddenly opens, and Jane is there, smiling again, a whispered apology.

“Everything okay?” she asks, looking between the two of them.

Riley nods. “Goodnight, Sloane.”

And Sloane stops before she follows her sister out the door, nods back. “Goodnight, Riley.”

  
  
  
  
  


Abby is gone when she wakes up, the bed remade with new sheets, the bucket cleared away, the cottage silent and humid. The forecast had predicted cool weather, but it’s muggy as ever, the sky swollen grey with heat. Jayce eventually slinks in, Blythe’s wide-brimmed sun hat crookedly hanging off their head, their overalls half-undone; they give Riley a tired wave and then collapse in their bunk without a word, almost immediately producing snores. In another half hour, John has returned to the cottage with a plate of brunch items that he offers to Riley just as she’s headed for the shower.

“Breakfast buffet from hell,” he says, leaving it on the table for her. “I’ll tell you more when you’re clean.”

Under the water, hands in her hair, she feels her fingers touch each other, the sensation of one palm brushing against the other. Can’t help but think of Sloane’s palm falling onto Riley’s knuckles, then of the insistent press of Sloane around her hand, a pulse, pulling her deeper.

  
  
  
  
  


While tucking into artisanal bacon and very cold eggs, Riley receives more intel on the situation at the big house, and it’s fairly predictable: Tipper Caldwell pacing the halls like a determined phantom, looking to exact paranormal levels of vengeance; family and friends milling around without much purpose, some having taken to sunbathing next to the altar where the light is particularly good; a few spontaneous games of croquet and volleyball that have been stretched out for hours; the handful of children in attendance having banded together in some kind of loose association involving face paint. John, an endearingly hyperbolic person, it turns out, makes it sound as though everyone is on the verge of ferality and complete anarchy is only hours away.

“Did you see Sloane up there?”

“Sloane?” John finishes his coffee. “I think she was fixing plates for her kids at one point. Haven’t seen her otherwise.” He pauses, giving Riley a careful look. “Heard you two drove Abby around last night while she was going through it. Good call.”

“More or less.”

Jayce emerges, still in their overalls, yawning and collapsing into the chair closest to John. Riley is still eyeing the straw hat, now crookedly arranged on Jayce’s head. “Where were you last night?”

“Where was I?” Jayce taps their chin in feigned deep consideration. “Difficult to say. A little here, a little there. The veil between the realms of the mundane and the ecstatic was thin last night.” Their smirk falls, their tone shifting to something more somber. “Never mind me, though.” They look at John. “You walked Abby up to the house this morning, yeah? Anybody have updates?”

John and Riley both shake their heads. 

“Fuck, what a situation. Poor Abby.” They pause, clearing their throat. “And Harper, of course. Poor Harper. All the rest of us can do is wait.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Luckily the maid of honor provided three pages of suggested activities in the back of our packets.” 

“Sloane is a trip, man. Very hot, but she is a trip.” Jayce’s eyes fall on Riley. “Abby mentioned you had history with the Caldwells, I’d forgotten that. You and Sloane dated in high school or something.”

Riley snorts into her food. “Oh god, no.”

“Really? I would have guessed, you know, with last night and everything.”

“It was Harper. Not Sloane.” Well, not back then, at least.

“Harper?” Jayce leans forward, clearly intrigued. “You dated Harper?”

“No, no, just the history part. We have history. We never dated.”

“But you something’d.”

“No, we didn’t.” Seeing Jayce’s expression, Riley makes a face in return. “I’m serious, we didn’t. It’s complicated and takes a long time to explain.”

“Well, we do have a whole lot of time and not much else right now, at least until the inevitable.” Something appears to occur to Jayce, and they fish around in the front pocket of their overalls, finally producing a blunt. “Ah, there she is, isn’t she just gorgeous. Wanna take her out to the porch? Show her the sights?”

  
  
  
  
  


Though things do briefly slow and dilate and cosmically center themselves on the porch, the rest of the day avalanches as Riley worried it might. Within another hour, they are called up to the site of the ceremony for an announcement: when Riley and company arrive, there’s a small crowd of guests and family, Sloane and Jane standing awkwardly to one side, the twins nearby, sporting coordinating butterfly face paint and oversized nets. Riley stares at her, studies her. Today has been a blur of exhaustion and strangeness, everything tilted now that the purpose for the entire weekend is up in the air, the cause for celebration declared to be rotten at its core and likely dissolved, and Riley would be lying if she said she hadn’t spent every empty minute of this morning thinking about the talk with Sloane last night, thinking about all of those words spilling out of Abby as they crouched between the trees, thinking about the way Sloane had looked in the dim kitchen, the way she’d looked at Riley with the kind of intensity that ought to start fires, that ought to raze cities.

She’s got to make up her mind. Riley’s got to decide what she wants, she knows this, and this is probably the worst time in the world to decide what you want to do with some murky little situationship - at a wedding that is no longer a wedding but has yet to cease being a technical wedding - but she’s got to do it. She has to know.

Sloane makes brief eye contact, her expression veiling an emotion beyond recognition, acknowledgment, and then she steps up onto the platform, wearing the most serious of frowns as she gazes out at the assembly, half of them looking exhausted already.

“Harper and Abby have asked me to extend their deepest apologies as well as their gratitude for your attendance this weekend.” Sloane squints at her phone, apparently now reading a message. “While they have made the difficult decision to ultimately not get married—” A few gasps release from the crowd, but worth noticing, too, are those who seem to barely bat an eye, nodding with tired approval. “They do not want the weekend or your time here to go to waste. Even though there is to be no wedding today, they have decided to hold a reception regardless, as they already paid for the DJ and catering and cannot get out of those contracts anyway.” Sloane raises an eyebrow at her phone, then continues. “So, in celebration of the rest of us being together, no matter the occasion, they invite you to dress up for the reception this evening and enjoy yourselves.” Sloane scrolls through her phone as if she expects there to be more, pauses, and then puts it down. “That appears to be their main message.”

The crowd dissolves into smaller conversation, trickles into groups before most start leaving for whatever new activity will hold them over until tonight - Riley thinks she overhears someone saying “that was not exactly a surprise” to a hearty agreement - and John lets out a long sigh. 

“Yikes.”

Jayce shrugs. “Well, it’s gonna be a weird night, but it could still be a fun night.”

“What are we going to do for the rest of the day? Nap?”

Riley gestures towards the house. “There’s a lively game of croquet over there.”

John makes a face. “What kind of old queen do you take me for, Doctor?”

Jayce subtly leans over, sniffs their own underarm. “I should shower. I smell like--”

“Blythe,” John says, giving them a look. “You smell like Blythe, honey.”

Jayce grins, searching the crowd over their shoulders. Riley turns in time to see Blythe near the big house, giving Jayce a small wave before going inside. 

“I’m going for a walk,” Riley announces, the idea having only just occurred to her. It’s not a very good idea, it might even be an idea planted there by a desire to repeat certain actions until the desired result is achieved, but it seems like the best thing to do until everything wears off and she’s content to face the evening. So many things tied up in the assumption of this event, so many people, a few people in particular she isn’t sure how to be near.

“That’s very enterprising of you,” John calls after her, smirking under his sunglasses. “Look out for the moon.”

  
  
  
  
  


Halfway down the path along the water, Riley encounters what she assumes is the remains of the child confederacy John had so enthusiastically described, all of them in facepaint with balloons tied to their wrists, some of them with little butterfly nets and walking sticks. She pauses as though she has come across a group of feral animals, and they glance at her without much interest, disappearing again into the underbrush.

When she reaches the lakeshore, it appears two of the children have been left behind, and once she comes out from under the trees it’s clear that they are two children familiar to her: the twins. 

“Uh, hello.” 

The girl has the net over her shoulder; her brother is sitting on the ground, tapping his own net against a rock. “Hello,” they say, and then the girl - Christ, what are either of their names, Riley did unspeakable things in front of their bear - cocks her head. “You’re our mom’s friend.”

“Yes,” Riley says. “I’m Riley.”

“This is Magnus,” the girl gestures to her brother. “I’m Matilda.”

_ You’re kidding.  _ But Riley nods, aware her own name is ‘Riley’ and Sloane is called, of course, ‘Sloane’, and smiles. “I just saw your friends down the trail.”

“They’re not our friends,” Matilda says.

“We just met them yesterday,” Magnus chimes in. “And they aren’t very nice.”

“They won’t allow us in the group anymore.”

Magnus taps a little more furiously with his net. “And we didn’t even do anything.”

“They said we look funny.”

“Because we chose butterflies for our faces.”

Matilda scowls, hands on her hips. She looks like her mother. “But we like butterflies best.”

“And there isn’t anything wrong with butterflies.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Riley remembers herself at this age, perhaps one of the last years of being socially accepted, never having to consider that a person might not be friendly, that someone might not approve, that she might someday be on the outside, always looking in. “Butterflies are really fantastic. They’ve definitely got the wrong idea about butterflies.”

“Yes,” Magnus says, getting to his feet. “We agree.”

“Can you take us down to the water?” Matilda points at the shore, a small beach in between the boulders that is merely three or so feet away. “We aren’t allowed to go in without a grown-up.”

“Sure.”

“Take your shoes off please,” Matilda instructs, removing her own and staring intensely at Riley until Riley steps out of her loafers, places them on the ground. “We want to catch minnows.”

“With your nets?”

Matilda blinks as though Riley’s grown a second head. Of course she means with their nets. “Yes.”

“Right, the obvious choice.”

“Can you help?”

Riley stares at the net in the girl’s hand, held out to her now with great expectation. She can see Sloane in that probing expression: the tiny narrowed eyes, her frown firm and unforgiving, her brow furrowed. 

“Yes.” She takes the net, rolls up her pants, and steps into the shallows. “I can absolutely help with that.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Matilda! Magnus!” It is unmistakably Sloane’s voice echoing through the woods, and unmistakably Sloane who emerges, breathless, and gasps at the current events just offshore: Magnus holding a jar heavy with water and a cloud of minnows, Matilda crouched next to Riley with her net poised, Riley absolutely soaked from having fallen not once but twice while trying to catch the glimmering flickers of fish. She gets to her feet, slapping hopelessly at her wet clothing, and Sloane cocks her head, mouth twitching. “You had me scared. I thought you were with the other children.”

“They aren’t very nice.” Riley says, and Matilda straightens, too, revealing what is in her net before depositing it in her brother’s jar.

“But it was okay because we found a grown-up,” she says, giving Riley a clear assessment and then nodding, smiling. “Riley has been helpful.”

Sloane’s arms fold across her chest, but she smirks a little, eyeing Riley. “I can see that. She’s clearly been very enthusiastic.”

“Riley doesn’t have very good balance,” Magnus says, but his grin is cheerful as he taps the jar. “But she is good at catching fish.”

Sloane’s mouth continues to flutter: her teeth appearing briefly to graze her bottom lip, each corner teasing at a smile before receding. “An admirable skill.”

“And now we can eat these for dinner,” Magnus says, holding the jar aloft, only for Sloane and Riley to simultaneously cut in with a resounding no.

“We need to get ready for the reception,” Sloane says, gesturing to the twins, and they let out big childish sighs, stepping up out of the water and onto the shore in exaggerated movements befitting their age.

“But Aunt Harper and Aunt Abby aren’t even getting married,” Magnus says, the jar still sloshing between his hands until Riley delicately takes it from him.

“Yes, but Aunt Harper and Aunt Abby understand the value of a contract.” Sloane sees the jar in Riley’s hand. “Are we going to let the fish go home to their families?”

“We’re going to eat them,” Magnus starts, but Matilda cuts in.

“No, we’re going to put them back.” She stares at Riley, small hands on her hips. “Riley, you have to pour them out, you can’t keep them.” Then, unexpectedly, she smiles and pats Riley on the arm. “It’s okay, Riley. They have to go back to their friends. Don’t be sad.”

“Oh.” Riley summons up a morose expression, feigning indecision before crouching in the shallows, turning the jar over to release the water and captive minnows. “Thank you for that advice, Matilda. I feel less conflicted about it.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Matilda says, and then reaches out her hand. “Please hold my hand now. I’m tired.”

Sloane is watching them, raising her eyebrows at Riley with the most natural of smiles, and then turns to take the lead behind Magnus. And Riley takes Matilda’s hand and follows behind, her shoes squelching with each step, dripping down the trail.

  
  
  
  
  


It’s certainly not as awkward as it could be. 

Abby finally answers everyone’s texts, saying she’ll probably spend the night in town and needs some space but feels good, really good and relieved, and tells them to enjoy themselves, honestly, seriously, don’t let the DJ go to waste, and this does feel like permission to not be weird about it even if they all still feel weird about it. Riley calls her as she’s getting ready and they joke about how this is very strange and fucked - “dude, I’m literally doing my hair right now to go to your wedding reception and you are straight up sitting on a hotel balcony because you will not be attending” - and there are moments Riley can’t miss when Abby sometimes sounds more strained, a little soggy, and she tries to distract her with humor, relating how Jayce is still wearing Blythe’s hat and John has taken thirty minutes to put on one sock. 

“Listen,” she says, just as she senses the conversation slowing down. “If you don’t want to be alone, we can still come over. Me and the queerios or whoever you want to be there. Whatever you need, you just ask, okay?”

And Abby is quiet for a moment, not filling the gaps with nervous chatter like she usually does, and then sighs. Riley can picture her sucking in her bottom lip, fiddling with her mouth and chewing her nails as always. “I love you guys. I’m okay, though, really. Sloane and Jane have me set up in this ridiculous suite, and I kind of like the silence right now. I just...you know how it is there, I can’t get far enough away from anything to think about what comes next.”

“We could always drive you to another gas station. One with better ice cream selection.”

Abby snorts. “Yeah, I’ll let you know. Go dance or something.”

“I don’t dance, Abby.”

“Pretend I have asked you to dance as a favor to alleviate my suffering. And don’t tell me to fuck off, dude, because I am definitely the champion of going through it right now, no other contenders. Go dance.”

So she does, sort of. There is a whole lot of alcohol and an open bar and beneath the finest quality tent that had been erected around noon and occupied by eight, what starts as slightly strange vibes devolves into people getting their uncertain feelings fully exorcised, and in time, even with the Caldwell patriarch and matriarch absent, even with the former brides gone, which is surely the best thing for them, the party might even pass for fun. Riley has another cocktail whose romantic Abby-Harper-centric name has been replaced with a numeral assignment - this is the Number Six, though it was probably previously something foul like ‘Pittsburgh Date Night’ - and Jayce yanks her out onto the floor with the rest of the ‘friends of the brides’ and leads them all in a lot of gyrating to Robyn. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sloane in some kind of intense conversation with the DJ, and slowly, subtly dances in that direction, making her way towards them without a lot of grace but decent intent.

“But this track is from their playlist, too,” Sloane is saying as Riley approaches, gesturing to the DJ’s laptop. “And at this point we don’t want to hear any of that. Do you have some sort of generic mix you just throw on in case of...suddenly generic events?”

“Ying Yang Twins.” Riley leans across the DJ booth, grinning at Sloane and the DJ. “Only play Ying Yang Twins. If you must branch out, only Dirty South rap for the rest of the night.”

The DJ shrugs. “I can do that.”

Sloane puts an arm out across Riley’s chest, although the expression she’s making twists it into a playful gesture, one that is willing to give in a little. “Please ignore her.”

“But I really can do that.”

Riley gives him a thumbs up. “Excellent, carry on.”

“No,” Sloane cuts in. “Do not carry on. Please play something else. Whatever you play for weddings.”

“I play a lot of things for weddings,” he says.

“Like I said, generic, genre-spanning, generation-hopping wedding reception playlist. That is all I ask.”

In another minute, as Riley has retreated towards the bar with that heat in the pool of her stomach and the DJ hunched over his computer again, Sloane catches up to her, brushes against her briefly, just long enough for Riley’s elbow to register the warm clench of Sloane’s fingers.

“You’re very unhelpful, Bennett,” Sloane says, and even though she’s frowning and her eyebrow is raised, Riley knows Sloane well enough by now - which is not to say well at all but also very well, really very well - that she can see the smirk in her eyes, the playfulness in the way her cheek has been sucked.

“I’m only helpful where fish are concerned.”

“So I’ve learned.” Sloane looks her up and down, a gesture not lost on Riley. “You’re bonding with my kids now, is that it?”

“They roped me into it.”

“They’re very good at that.”

“The apples don't fall far from the tree, I think.” She orders her drink, pauses so Sloane can tell her what she wants - a drink, that is - and then allows her expression to fall into more serious territory. “How are you?”

“How am I?” Sloane snorts. “I’m currently attending the alternate universe version of the reception I planned, all for a wedding that will never happen, which is for the best, certainly, but does not make this process any smoother.” She accepts the cocktail from the bartender - Number Five, probably ‘Love Wins’ or something awful - and takes a sip. “And I’m supposed to be enjoying myself because I was specifically asked to, but I’m terrible at pretending.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, Bennett.” A pointed look. “I am.”

Riley glances around the crowded tent, finally ridding itself of its previously nervous energy. “Your folks aren’t here.”

“No, they’re not. This may actually be the thing that pushes them over the edge and into therapy.” Sloane raises an eyebrow. “Either that or Tipper climbs up to the attic and never comes down. She might be there now, wailing out the window.”

“Stranger things have happened, I guess.”

“They have indeed. We’re standing in one of them now.” She balances against the nearest chair, the tables still decorated with the approved decorations, the favors still lined up at each seat. Sloane opens one of the bags up and pulls out a selection of truffles, offering it to Riley. “Ignore that a personal message from the brides is embossed on the back of the box.”

Riley holds up her free hand. “I’m good. These souvenirs are going to be worth a whole lot on eBay next week.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, this feels like a world first, right? Cancelling the wedding on the day of the wedding but still holding the reception.”

Sloane’s expression shifts, her gaze drifting towards the rest of the tent. “I doubt this is a first of any kind. Last minute departures are common in love.”

Riley asks the question before she can regret it. “Do you think they were in love?”

Sloane looks at her, eyes narrowing, but her mouth is pulled into an unfamiliar line, not quite a frown. “Yes, I think so. Not now, maybe, but at some point, they were in love.” Sloane blinks. “Do you not believe in love, Bennett?”

“I believe in love.” She downs the remains of her drink, which is actually more than half of her drink, a long swallow that deprives her of air but feels necessary all the same, and then nods towards the back of the tent. “I’ve got to, uh...use the...”

“Sure,” Sloane says, shrugging, but she’s watching her with that intensity again, everything else fading, and Riley has to turn away to break the gaze, the only way.

Behind the tent she goes, the crickets singing beneath the thud of bass, the night outside the reception cooler and lit only by the far lamps of the porch, a brief respite. And then she sees her.

Shit.

Harper is crouching there, awkwardly digging through the box of wine. She is wearing some kind of loungewear, her hair up, her makeup off: as un-Harper as she could be.

“Oh,” she says, straightening to her real height, looking down at Riley. Riley recalls why she has never dated anyone taller than her since.

“Sorry.” She takes a step backwards, but Harper reaches out her hand, gesturing for her to stop.

“Riley.” 

She smiles in awkward acknowledgment. “Hey Harper.”

“Am I a bad person?”

_ Oh Christ.  _ Riley pauses the automatic response her face wants to make. She holds very still before shaking her head. “Yeah, look, I’m just not really the one to —“

“I’m sorry for everything I did to you. I’m sorry that I'm like this.”

“I hear you, but not right now, okay?”

“Do you forgive me?”

“Oh boy.” She sucks air in through her teeth. “Honestly, I feel like it’s been more than a literal decade and we are both better off just moving on.”

“No, it’s not about moving on. I want your forgiveness, Riley.”

“Harper, look.”

“Forgive me, Riley. Please.”

“I don’t care about all that anymore. If anything, I came out of it feeling sorry for you.”

Harper sniffs, only for her brow to curdle in clear confusion. “You feel sorry for me?”

“I mean, right now, definitely. But even then, yeah.”

“Why?” 

She sighs. “You cut a pretty pathetic figure. All that fear you bottled up. Hurting me didn’t make you happy.”

“I don’t think I was that pathetic.”

“Okay.” Riley holds up her hands, taking another step back. “Look, I can’t imagine how difficult this is right now--”

“Really fucking difficult, Riley.”

“Right, exactly. Dredging up this ancient shit won’t help, Harper.”

And now Harper does something fairly unexpected: she lets out a gasping sob, her face crinkles, and she begins to silently cry, tears descending to her open mouth.

“Oh dear,” Riley says, calculating the best way to exit this scenario, but Harper’s shoulders are shaking violently and she’s covering her face, now twice as pathetic as Riley had earlier intimated, and Riley is struck by the memory of Harper across a classroom, deep into the days of pretending not to know her, glancing at Riley when she thought she wouldn’t notice, turning red when she did, and at the time, Riley had thought Harper was only finding a new way to be cruel, but now she thinks that Harper was regretful and ashamed and had never been taught how to apologize, and while it doesn’t make any of it right, while it remains so very wrong, she thinks it’s very sad. And so she steps forward, shaking her head before she does it, and gives Harper a tight embrace. “I will give you one single hug, okay? And then I’m going to step away, but I will give you this hug. I’m just stating my boundaries here.”

Harper continues to cry in her arms, a bleak physical thing, and Riley counts backwards from ten, and then steps away. She bites her lip, continuing to not quite know how to stand as witness to this spectacle, settling on her arms crossed at her chest.

“You’re not a bad person, Harper, because no one is a bad person, everyone can choose to do good things even after they’ve done bad things.” She sighs. “But you should really be fucking nicer to Sloane."

Harper sniffs, the crying currently exhausted, wiping at the wet of her face. She blinks at Riley. “Okay.”

“Can I...can I do anything for you?”

“No,” Harper says. She is staring intensely at the wine bottle in her fist before finally rubbing at her face again. “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything for me. That’s not fair.” 

And then there’s Jane ‘Deus Ex Machina’ Caldwell coming around the other side of the tent, taking in this scene with a generous heap of confused expressions, her smile changing to a frown before warping to a slightly open mouth, brows constricting to match each new revelation of emotion. “Harper,” she starts, and her tone is that of someone coming across a toddler who has gotten into the paint. “This feels like a bad idea, Harper,” she says, removing the wine bottle from her sister’s hands and setting it back into the box. She glances at Riley, gives her an apologetic look before turning her sister towards the house.

Riley watches them disappear around the corner, her stomach slightly sour. “Fuck,” she says to absolutely no one, or perhaps to herself, perhaps it’s with Riley Bennett that Riley must converse. She is reminded again of the need to decide what she wants. Feels the question rushing up her spine before she shakes it off, goes in search of what are probably excellent portapotties.

  
  
  
  
  


The night progresses, peaks around midnight, everyone thoroughly sloshed and enthused by the occasion they are so actively trying to forget. And through this Riley watches Sloane sometimes appear, never to dance, rarely with a drink in hand, seemingly only to check in on certain things, or to sit at the tables, staring into the crowd. Jane joins her at times, but then she, too, is pulled into the group and Jane’s smiles are infectious and it’s easy to see how the rest of the tent ripples with the after effects of her laughing presence, everyone relaxing a bit because Jane Caldwell is having a good time, and so should they. And the hours pass like this, charged but tiring out, until people disperse and return to their beds, and the tent begins to empty out, and finally it is only these friends of the bride spinning and sometimes falling onto the dance floor, pushing into the early hours.

And it is at this time that Riley sees Sloane leave the tent, and so Riley follows, as she was always going to do tonight, as she probably knew when she woke up this morning.

Sloane has entered the back room where caterers and bartender were previously occupied, a flap of canvas between this space and the dancefloor. She’s not actually doing anything - her back is to Riley, her hands are on her hips, and then they are going to her face, rubbing at the sides of her head, kneading her temples.

“Hey,” Riley says, and Sloane gives the smallest, mousiest sound, so incredibly unlike Sloane, as she turns. 

“Jesus,” she says, palm pressed flat to her collar. Riley hasn’t told her yet, and maybe she won’t, maybe that will cross lines they keep trying to remap, but Sloane looks beautiful tonight.

“Sorry.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are you doing, Bennett?”

What is she doing, really? She runs her hands through her own hair, pushes it back as she takes a deep breath. “Do you want to dance?”

“Do I…” Sloane’s mouth remains open even as her words fade, her tongue visible as it rolls, and then she holds out her hand, expectation lit across all of her features. “You lead.”

So she does, or at least she tries to, and it’s easy enough to dance to the tracks the DJ has left for this final hour, sappy tracks that are probably reserved for wedding dances, but here they are, circling each other to the Bee Gees of all things, trying not to internalize the lyrics - Riley decides it is not the time to contemplate how deep their love is, or to bring that word into it at all.

The music slows and grows steadier, Riley making a face as it transitions into an old Nat King Cole standard she has no idea how to dance to - quizas, quizas, quizas, indeed, as in “quizas she can’t move to this”. But Sloane holds tight to her hand, Sloane’s hips switch with professional precision to the tempo, and they fall into a loose cha-cha, if Riley was going to call it anything at all. The warmth of Sloane’s waist under her palm, the feeling of her weight pressing into Riley’s grip before swaying to the other side: Riley looks down at her and feels foolish for even entertaining the idea that they could just tie things up here and move on to the level of acquaintances. 

“I want us to be friends.”

Sloane’s hip pauses in its pendulum, delayed within the other woman’s curved fingers even as the beat continues without them. “Oh.” 

“I think if we choose to be friends, we take the pressure off everything else.” She lets her fingers fan over Sloane’s waist, pulling her slightly closer. It’s an automatic gesture she barely notices until it’s too late. “What do you think?”

“I think that’s an acceptable proposal.” The muscles in Sloane’s neck tighten; Riley can see the shadows elongate against the orange light that has settled on her skin, knows how it would feel to press her hand there, the tendons rippling beneath. “Yes. Fine. We can be friends.”

“Friends without benefits, just to clarify.”

Sloane’s mouth twitches into a frown. “That’s an unnecessary clarification. I think making this platonic would be the whole point of reducing it to a friendship.”

“Is it a reduction?”

Sloane makes a soft sound in her throat. “Fine. Poor wording. Relegation or reassignment.”

“If anything we might see more of each other because it won’t just be about…” She is now hesitant to even say the word in the wake of this decision.

“Was it previously only about sex?”

Riley swallows. “I don’t know.”

“Well, it might be wise to have an answer to that question now that we are entering this new stage. I’d hope you have enough evidence to form one.” Sloane steps forward again, leaning into the dance as the music picks up, Riley following even as she is leading. “Alright, you and I are just friends. Let’s consider that commenced.”

“Maybe I should find something to drink and we can toast to it.”

“Oh, there is so much surplus alcohol, you wouldn’t have to look far.”

And they don’t - just behind them is a crate of very good quality Scotch and Riley fills an empty champagne flute with it, rules for glassware be damned. Sloane extends her own flute without even the slightest hesitation, allowing Riley to top her off, and then lifts her hand. 

“To friendship.”

“To an uncomplicated friendship.” She downs her flute in a single swig, swallowing the urge to slightly choke. Looks Sloane in the eye as she winces, immediately banishing the flood of additional thoughts that accompany the act of looking at this woman, and smiles. “We can do this.”

“We can.” Sloane’s voice is lowered to a whisper, barely audible above the music, but she is smiling with her eyes, that rarest of expressions as she closes the space between them, drops her head onto Riley’s shoulder for this last dance. “We can have an uncomplicated platonic friendship.”

Reader, they could not.


End file.
